Stacks and stacks and stacks of shirts, piled high
Fans blowing at 67 miles per inch, blow the head off
Spinning records into an Utopian future
Television reflection of a bearded man
This is my existence, man is changing, weakening, darkening, dying
Constant chemical fights, caffeinated alcoholic nicotine fucks
I am god
I am am my own god
Open the door to the sunny city and give it a stroll
A man drunk from last night’s beautiful time
Stumble stumble stumble fall
It’s almost Fall you know, brown leaves are ah coming
Telephone wires - the old veins of a body
Cars spitting smog from their cigarettes
A brown paper bag hiding the evidence
But I’m not cut out for this living stuff
It’s too hard on you, it wears you down like a tire
Get this, we’re just tires on a car
Shirts in a stack