My father was not a sailor
My mother was not a saint
Each one was just a failure
But what they were I ain't

Speckled, soiled and hurt
Their dying was long and hard
Each a droning but dull alert
Which still keeps me on guard

I am not a sailor
I don't believe in any saint
I am not a tailor
I'm a walking, talking complaint

If you see me on the street, shake your head
If you get no response, I'm already dead