I know there's no room for me to be anything but mistaken for a tree drifting in blue breeze. Then there's fees --you fees, my foes make cold my toes and shown me a new high, I'd never know in getting lo. Woe me, woe be-gone traveler of rancid nights and dirty tracks. Hit me clean but never listen to me speak. You'd be wrong then 'cause I am a liar and never know it cause I lied again---- to my mother my poor poor mother.