Dust moves off his arms and chest 

As the vent window opens in his volkswagen 

Hundreds of impalas and stationwagons 

Idle at the train crossing 

The puddles that surround him 

Are always made from sweat 

The open sore on his face reminds him 

That his blood is simply temporary 

 

The gas is blowing in the trees 

One whiff has brought me to my knees 

At first you practice, practice to yourself 

You are the very air, you are the very air 

You are the very air he breathes 


His head throbs and fills 

With a big machine bag 

I must be the richest man 

To ever stand in line at the bank 


The gas is blowing in the trees 

One whiff has brought me to my knees 

At first you practice, practice to yourself 

You are the very air, you are the very air 

You are the very air he breathes