|
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 |
