Life contains many headaches
Like a stroll in the desert,
Without a map
We're forced to choose
The most pleasant path we can find
Towards oblivion

Don't listen to what they say
Fifty thousand people,
Are wrong every day
For a decaying piece of bread,
Fifty thousand people,
Will stomp on you, every day

Old socks come off
New socks come on
Old socks go to the washing machine
And then return to you, good as new
Until they reach disintegration.

But I -
Have been shone upon
I've traded in my box of broken hearts
For a lifetime supply
Of air