“On a morning from a Bogart movie, in a country where they turn back time.”

You reach out your hand, but you’re all alone, in those time passages.

Jimi Hendrix played loud and free, Sergeant Pepper was real to me.

Country & western, rap, heavy metal, with historical folk rock off in some kind of cult.

So you packed your world up inside a canvas sack, set off down the highway with your rings and Kerouac.

And peer down the highway from here to eternity and reach out for love on the run.

The literati in their cellarsPerform semantic tarantellas.I wish I did it half as well as them.

I know there’s a big bad world out there, but I rarely come across it.

You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre, contemplating a crime. She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a watercolor in the rain.

Looking so cool, his greed is hard to conceal, he’s fresh out of law school.

most of the rest of it is about image or the beat or the sound, or else it’s a tribal thing.

She doesn’t give you time for questions as she locks up your arms in hers. And you follow till your sense of direction completely disappears.

Whoever you pretend to be, you must face yourself eventually.

Nothing that’s forced can ever be right, if it doesn’t come naturally, leave it.

Look to the past and remember no empire rises that sooner or later won’t fall.

And all the songs I ever sung each one of them untied me And all the girls I ever loved have left themselves inside me.

She comes out of the sun in a silk dress, running like a water color in the rain.