I was trying, but I got high and nothing came out right
Three more hours to California here I come again
I need sunshine deep in my eyes to keep them satisfied
When winter comes man, all be fine
On the frozen west side
But I should know better than that you might think
But here I am on the frying pan again
And I was cracked and bent for them to fix
But those flashing lights always seemed like nonsense
I buzzed your door and you came running always so amused
In three more hours I’ll be downstairs waving at yellow blurs
With all these white lines pinned at my side nothings relative
And when he asked, “Sir, where are you going?”
I could only shake my head
And I should know better than that you might think
But here I am like a rerun all day again
And I Just might have better things to do
But my lists are lost and I’ve lost the ability to talk

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