I grew up in the basement of a workingman's saloon
My mother was the mistress of a famous gangland goon
My sisters worked the graveyard shift
And my papa died too soon
My only friend was a second hand viola
I was spat on, cursed, and ridiculed
By mama's mobster beau
‘Til I listened to my instincts and laid the bugger low
With a right hook just like Dempsey's
That I didn't want to throw
For fear they'd take my second hand viola
The public cried electric chair
But the judge said ten to life
My cellmate said yer pretty, son to him, I was like wife
Persuasive were his tender words
But more so was the knife
With which he slashed the strings of my second hand viola
I hobbled back into the world
Wrinkled flesh and brittle bone
Speaking only with faint gestures now, unable but to moan
Forgotten in a dark hotel
I'll spend my last few nights alone
Dreaming of a second hand viola
If I must live on your terms
If I can't live on my own terms
I won't want to live life at all