Statistic

Sipping whiskey from a paper cup,
You drown your sorrows 'till you can't stand up.
A broken needle in a purple vein,
You're shooting junk until you're half insane.
You're gonna end up on a slab,
In a coroner's lab.
Baby you're so masochistic.
You were born, ya ya,
To be a statistic.
I had a friend named Tina,
And she was into having fun,
Until she woke up one cold morning,
And found she had a son.
Expensive habits,
And no line of cash.
So she stood upon a corner,
And peddled her ass.
Until she met up with a John,
With a knife twelve inches long.
She never lived to see him convicted.
She was born, ya ya,
To be a statistic.

Born, born. B-b-born.
Born, born. B-b-born
You life your life,
Just like a toss of the dice,
You better look in the mirror,
Better think twice.
You weren't born, no no,
To be a statistic.

Tina's little son,
'was made a ward of the state.
Where he was sexually molested,
Until the age of eight.
Nobody would believe him,
They called it fantasy,
Until he sent his shrink,
To meet the holy trinity.
Labeled sociopathic,
And placed in an institution,
Where electro-shock,
Seemed the only solution.
Johnny stuck a nail-file,
In a bathroom socket.
With his hand in the socket,
He lit up like a rocket.
He was born, ya ya,
To be a statistic.

Sweet little Susie,
Left her home at just sixteen.
And headed for the bright lights,
Of the Hollywood seen.
She never quite made it to the silver screen,
So she eked out an existence as a porno queen.
All night parties,
A marathon fuck.
She sold more than her pride,
For a thousand bucks.
Now she's giving head,
From a hospital bed.
Her body just couldn't resist it.
She was born, ya ya, to be statistic.