I pay attention to the men behind the curtain
I was born in the horns of a bull
I know the patter, who it serves and who it's hurting
And raised in the image of a wool-puller
My daddy put my crib under Damocles' sword
My daddy put my crib under Damocles' sword
My daddy put my crib under Damocles' sword
I saw the bull and became a toreador-rah
And no qualification can make you immune
To the things I can do, if I'm doing them to you
But I can't relax, I can never relax
And I'm beginning to ask myself
What am I still doing here now?
Who's the one I'm gonna make proud?
And is it too late for it to be me?
Is it too late for it to be me?
It is too late for it to be me?
Is it too late to be me?
I pay attention to the men behind the curtain
I was born in the horns of a bull
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