What the hell can I do with my knee,

with my leg so long and skinny,

with my arms, with my tongue,

with my weak eyes?

What can I do in this whirlwind

of imbeciles with good intentions?

What can I do with the rotten smart people

and with sweet girls that don't love men but poetry?

What can I do with those poets uniformed

by academia or by Communism?

What, between salesmen and politicians

or pastors of souls?

What the hell can I do, Basketcase,

if I'm not a saint, or a hero, or a criminal,

or a worshiper of the arts,

or a pharmacist,

or a rebel?

What can I do if I can do it all

but I only want to watch and watch?