hey it's friday night in the drunk tank
and you're down on your luck
you got forty-eight hours
to tell it to the judge
and all your best intentions
they turn from gold to dust
you've always had this time bomb
ticking in your guts
you can only blame so much
on circumstance
the real sick puppies
they don't get much of a chance

at the feel good mill
down at the feel good mill
and there's so much time to kill
i been trying to keep out the chill

i am guilty of transgression
i have lied and not loved
i have falsified traumatized victimized
as if that weren't enough
and i have heard the Good Shepherd
always seeks His lost sheep
why is it that all my life
i'm keeping it at arms length
you can only blame so much
on the lack of insurance
the real sick puppies
they just learn to endure it

you got lepers in your bedroom
and there are beggars in your pantry
post traumatic-stress veterans
who saw platoon one time too many
so they buy into the voodoo
and the hoodoo and the bingo
that drab vocabulary
and that therapeutic lingo
you could lay it all down
between the legs of affluence
but the real sick puppies
they're just glad to abuse it