Not believing in anything I just sit,
listening to my breathing
After thirty years
It still goes in and out.
Reading the mornin paper while I sit,
Flashes in the mind of one dim twisted wit
Thirty years and still
What goes in as food comes out as shit
and in a voice that sounded faraway and strange she asked
oh shitting stranger,
how many miles more to Utopia?
Utopia is this land of dreams i hear
oh stop reading the paper dear
how many more miles to Utopia?
ps: love u too