In the margins by the terminal station
You trip towards the cliff edge swinging
There's a limit to a punter's imagination
In the hard-on cars and cut glass drinking
Where you're trading mister, cash comes quick
Until you climb into the car of a sick trick
And he'll take care of your looks for good
He'll streak your hair with henna blood

You fell, but you will never tell
In a circus with no safety net
In the cross where no kings will tread
Cheap wine in the gutter, menstrual red

You will die a mugshot heroine
But Jack the knife will live the fame
Until he saw the papers, he didn't even know your name
And dealing with a real person was not part of the game
Now you're gone and we all sympathize
But judgment hovers in our eyes
But he'll never find the runt that killed you
And there'll only be cops to criticize

When you fall, no one hears at all
Chock-full through all the city spaces
There's nothing as common as a siren at night
Nothing as bland as pretty faces
Nothing as bland as pretty faces