John Doe

There must be a thousand ways to leave this mortal coil
Get yourself wrapped in the soil with your warts and all
Put down in a heavy box in your shirt and tie and socks
Left until the whole thing rots and once a year some flowers
There must be a hundred ways to do it all yourself
Up there on the shelf all that deadly stuff like paraquat
Waiting for the cord to snap, sure you'd drink it down like that
Off to join the weeds you thought you'd killed off long ago

There must be a thousand ways to give a man a hand
When he's running out of sand, help him on his merry way
Go and ask his wife who doesn't like him anyway
God she'd love to see the day he'd accidentally fall
There must be a hundred ways to do it on the sly
Who's to blame, Not I, wasn't here, have an alibi
Sleeping with the private eye I hired to do the dirty work
Dug up lots of awful stuff you won't believe at all

There must be a better way for me to deal with change
Not getting all deranged and making silly plans
To liquidate yer man and put him in a pauper's grave
Think of all the grief I'd save, paying for the flowers
There must be a bettter way to deal with John Doe
Stick a real name on his toe and file him under solved
Situation all resolved and moving quickly on
To the next ould John I met a week ago

God help you, God help you if your name is John
You won't last very long but neither then did Sue
Nor Pat nor Kate nor Tom nor Jack nor Betty-Lou
And neither then will you, get your hand out of the fire
God help you, God help you if you're looking for a friend
You'll meet a nasty end with a friend like me
It'll end in agony, the pleasure is all mine
And the reaper's next in line, my next John Doe

God help you Grim Reaper you're out there on the dole
Carrrying a hoe, you know no friend nor foe
Scratching at the weeds, killing time like me
Waiting nervously for the final show
God help us when we meet I won't know what to do
But neither then will you, we'll spend eternity
Recounting dirty deeds and circling each other
Like two thick-headed brothers, the last John Does

There must be a thousand ways to dig yourself a hole
Complete with greasy pole, Ah you won't need me to push
When you're fighting with the rush, you deserve a fuckin medal
When your foot is on the pedal and you're going to the wall
There must be a hundred ways you think you might be saved
When you're getting all afraid and the smell is in the air
Of the sweat and shit and fear, something running down your leg
And you know you'd like to beg but no-one wants to know

John Doe, John Doe, John Doe, John Doe