Maybe I think too hard, rhyme too much, dig too deep.
I can’t find my cigarettes, my surface streets
To shut up the doors, dance in the dark- wild and free.
Where are those familiar surface streets?
Opium for the masses, or the comedown?
Should I wish to swim again on solid ground
So I’m not standing in a ghost town?
I got sick before this solid ground.
Nothing to lose, toes to the edge,
But you can’t build a life on the ledge.
I can’t bring two lives to fledge
If I can’t step off the ledge.
So bury the gypsy in a shoebox near here.
If I make it back this time next year
I’ll dig her up again, I swear,
Unless she finally disappears
Somewhere no one needs her.