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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?