David Bowie, “Young Americans” (live in Montreal, 1987)

 

They pulled in just behind the fridge / He lays her down, he frowns / “Gee my life’s a funny thing / Am I still too young?” / He kissed her then and there / She took his ring, took his babies / It took him minutes, took her nowhere / Heaven knows she’d have taken anything, but

All night / She wants the young American, young American, young American / She wants the young American / All right / She wants the young American

Scanning life through the picture window / She finds the slinky vagabond / He coughs as he passes her Ford Mustang, but / Heaven forbid she’ll take anything / But the freak, and his type, all for nothing / He misses a step and cuts his hand, but / Showing nothing, he swoops like a song / She cries “Where have all papa’s heroes gone?”

All right / She wants the young American, young American, young American / She wants the young American / All right / She wants the young American

All the way from Washington / Her bread-winner begs off the bathroom floor / We live for just these twenty years / Do we have to die for the fifty more?

All right / He wants the young American, young American, young American / He wants the young American / All right / He wants the young American

Do you remember your President Nixon? / Do you remember the bills you have to pay, or even yesterday?

Have been the un-American? / Just you and your idol sing falsetto / ’Bout leather, leather everywhere, and / Not a myth left from the ghetto / Well, well, well, would you carry a razor / In case, just in case of depression? / Sit on your hands on a bus of survivors / Blushing at all the afro-Sheeners / Ain’t that close to love? / Well, ain’t that poster love? / Well, it ain’t that Barbie doll / Her hearts have been broken just like you

All right / You want the young American, young American, young American / You want the young American / All night / You want the young American

You ain’t a pimp and you ain’t a hustler / A pimp’s got a Cadi and a lady got a Chrysler / Black’s got respect and white’s got his Soul Train / Mama’s got cramps, and look at your hands ache / I heard the news today, oh boy / I got a suite and you got defeat / Ain’t there a man who can say no more? / And, ain’t there a woman I can sock on the jaw? / And, ain’t there a child I can hold without judging? / Ain’t there a pen that will write before they die? / Ain’t you proud that you’ve still got faces? / Ain’t there one damn song that can make me break down and cry?

All night / You want the young American, young American, young American / You want the young American

All right / You want the young American

[By David Bowie © RCA Records, 1975]