You’ve got nowhere to go but upnTo where you’ll dine with foreign kingsnYou can’t forget about our trystnAnd all those other fleeting thingsnnAnd will they train you like a dognAnd will they walk you down my streetsnThe wind will whistle our old songsnThe ones I’ll always keepnnYou’ve got nowhere to gonWhoa whoanNowhere to gonWhoa whoanNowhere to gonWhoa whoanNowhere to gonWhoa whoannI’ve got a bone to pick with younAbout the argument we hadnThe day you got into that cabnAnd said my world is in your pastnnThere must be something wrong with me nMy mind is just a sickly little alibinAnd why am I surprisednYou’re giving up on menGoodbyenThe words you’re wielding like a knife