A Small Plot of Land - Nine Inch Nails, David Bowie

Poor soul

Spit upon that

Poor soul

He never knew what hit him

And it hit him so

Poor dunce

He pushed back the pigmen

The Barbs laughed

The fool is dead

Poor dunce

He’s less than within us

The brains talk

But the will to live is dead

And prayer can’t travel

So far

These days

The talk of your life

Standing so near

To innocent eyes

Poor dunce

Swings thru the tunnels

And claws his way

Is small life so manic

Are these really the days

Poor dunce

Poor dunce

Poor soul

Poor soul

Poor soul