People today are still living off the table scraps of the sixties. They are still being passed around - the music and the ideas.
They're selling postcards of the hanging.
We sit here stranded, though we're all doin' our best to deny it
Well, it's hard to stumble And land in some muddy lagoon When it's nine below zero And three o'clock in the afternoon.
I don't think I'm tangible to myself.
It frightens me, the awful truth, of how sweet life can be.