Wood Jackson David Bowie

Jackson made twenty tapes in a day
To give away
A give away

And he play
The tunes they'd call creative when they're running out of names
Heaven knows he's really torn it now
But the names it hurt poor Jackson stopped the haters in his way
Heaven knows he's for it

Sha-a-a-me!
Hey hey
He was never quite unsure but really sane
Wants to play

Jackson stole twenty souls in a day
To take away
A take away
He takes away
And no complaints
Heart's upon his sleeve and his blade
Wood Jackson took the beating every day, given out, passed away, another way
Hey hey
Just wants to play
And how he played
The mob they bleed and tremble when they're running after life
Heaven knows he's really torn it now
The words that killed Wood Jackson's friends were written on the wall
Heaven knows he's for it