| Pretty, pretty wilted daisies all in a row | 
| On the top of Mt. Vernon in the dirty snow | 
| Where the shadows sing of sunshine like a dying crow | 
| Pretty, pretty wilted daisies all in a row | 
| You’re waving high into the night time of a New York street | 
| Your newly painted yellow taxi has dirty seats | 
| You’re racing quick into the nightclub, so that you can see | 
| The same old sick and sadly strangers always seem to meet | 
| 'Cause it’s a long way to and a short ride from the top | 
| It’s a rotting middle finger and the cancer will not stop | 
| It’s a long way to and a short ride from the top | 
| Well, your hand begins to slip or they cut and either way you drop | 
| Your small apartment is a mess but you don’t seem to care | 
| The dirty dishes in the corner go with the broken chairs | 
| And higher grows the stack of bills that calmly declare | 
| If you don’t pay within a week then your shit is theirs | 
| You go to work Monday through Sunday, open to close | 
| The seven dollars that they pay you, son, is good as a broken nose | 
| When no one’s watching, pull your pants down, touch your toes | 
| You’re undercut and you’re exploited but that’s how our country grows | 
| 'Cause it’s a long way to and a short ride from the top | 
| It’s a rotting middle finger and the cancer will not stop | 
| It’s a long way to and a short ride from the top | 
| And your hand begins to slip or they cut | 
| Either way you take what they have stolen | 
| Or try to break what can’t be broken | 
| You can speak what you believe | 
| But every thought comes preconceived | 
| You try to wash your hands to this | 
| Clear your conscience and dismiss | 
| Pretend our problems don’t exist | 
| We’re taking aspirin for a broken wrist | 
| 'Cause it’s a long, long way to the top | 
| Oh, it’s your rotting middle finger and the cancer will not stop | 
| It’s a long, long way to the top | 
| Well, our hands begin to slip or they cut, either way we |