he says we're fucked up ;

in the streets of shame,
where you've lost your dreams in the rain,
there's no sign of hope,
the stems and seeds of the last of the dope,
there's a glow of light,
the st. jimmy is the spark in the night,
bearing gifts and trust,
the fixture in the city of lust

what the hells your name,
what's your pleasure and what's your pain?
do you dream too much?
do you think what you need is a crutch?

in the crowd of pain, st. jimmy comes without any shame,
he says "we're fucked up",
but we're not the same,
and mom and dad are the ones you can blame

jimmy died today.

he blew his brains out into the bay,
in the state of mind in my own private suicide