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