Man in a wheelchair, lobby of the Forrest
With freighters, hustlers, hard-up millionaires

Mobsters, cops, whores, pimps and Marxist
All human life is there

Man in a wheelchair listens to the chatter
Writes down all the insane crap he hears

He can't move around, but it doesn't really matter
In the Forrest all you need is eyes and ears

And out they pour, the hits and the misses
Turn Me Loose, Lonely Avenue
And down in Nashville, they always sing Suspicion
Pomus Shuman, 1962

And he never could be one of those happy cripples
The kind that smile and tell you life's OK

He was mad as hell, frightened and bitter
He found a way to make his feelings pay

Back at the Forrest, in the steakhouse of the lobby
The diner gets three bullets in the head

Bop, Bop, Bop! Ba-op!

Doc looks down, eating his linguine
Thinking up a lyric for the dead

And out they pour, the hits and the misses
Turn Me Loose, Lonely Avenue
And down in Nashville, they always sing Suspicion
Pomus Shuman, 1962