If I can sweep, nearly free, let my mind be tricked and story be told.
My life too precious, but it never leaves;
On solid ground, I let my words flow.
I am here, I am rotting, I am illness-stained;
I listen without pity, hear me not;
I bury without a shovel, smell of garbage, but it really don’t matter no more.
A different sound I hear, like milk and honey;
I asked myself if I am made for this world.
Golden roads, fixed, crumbled, fixed again,
A different taste, like spring freshness at the end of autumn;
Winter is here again, smelling and tasting cost the grown man his patience.
Play that song again, lock up them folks in the cells again;
But it really don’t matter no more.
All my life, cycles cooked onions in dreadful tears,
Cutting with a smile, square fits a few short years.
No matter how long, how high, how grim,
Let me sleep, nearly free, let my mind drift into the thicket plot untold.
Any day now, late night shadow remembers where the path leads.
Convince me to walk into the sun again,
The future is just that part of history.
Think sharp and preach slow,
Remembering but it don’t really matter no more.
