No Joy in Drugs

She walks out across the common
to the other side of town,
where the music’s really funky
and everybody’s getting down,
but she’s not there to dance.

And on down through the subway,
she kicks a beer can upon the ground,
on through those city streets,
people moving all around.

Passed the factory gates,
on through the central park
where the alcoholics and junkies
sit there after dark.

Passed Fat Larry’s on Abbot Lane,
she pulls tight on her jacket
as it starts to rain,
and she feels the ice inside.

Up Montgomery Street,
up the steps to number ten,
she knocks on the door,
she’s there again.

The door opens up,
she steps inside,
puts the money on the table,
feelings she can’t hide.

“There you go, darling,”
he gives her a gram,
she takes out a needle,
the money’s for Sam.

And once that needle’s in her arm,
she feels complete,
a softly calm
as she floods herself
with the wrath of hell.

Tearing into a vein,
at once she’s free,
but she’s a loser,
just a cruiser
and then she’s back out in the rain.

She won’t be going there anymore,
she left to go home,
but she died at her door,
although if you listen real good
as the night winds rush by
you might see her ghost
or you might hear her cry,
cocaine was her master
and it helped her to die.

So listen to this story
and listen real good,
there’s no joy in drugs,
that’s understood,

If you get involved
to get your high,
you’ve lost the game,
prepare to die.

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