These words are transcribed without permission the way they appear in the "Ringleader Of The Tormentors" album. There are no variations between the printed lyrics and what Morrissey actually sings in the studio version.

A working-class face glares back
at me from the glass, and lurches:
"forgive me, on the streets I ran
 turned sickness into popular song."
Streets of wet-black holes
on roads that you can never know
you never have them
but they always have you
till the day that you croak
it's no joke.
A working-class face glares back
at me from the glass, and lurches:
"forgive me, on the streets I ran
 turned sickness into unpopular song."
And all these streets can do
is claim to know the real you
and warn: If you don't leave
you will kill, or be killed
which isn't very nice
here, everybody's friendly
but nobody's friends
dear God when will I be
where I should be?
And when the palmist said:
"One Thursday you will be dead,"
I said:
"No, not me - this cannot be
dear God, take him, take them, take anyone
the still-born, the new-born,
the infirm - take anyone
take people from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania ¹
- just spare me."