I often wonder if hope still exists,
That if I prayed enough,
Good things would suffice,
And great things would abound.
I often wonder if faith was ever real,
That if I crossed my fingers 'til they cramped,
Lucky stars would count themselves,
And love would get prescription lenses.
I always think about you,
And wonder what's inside your brain:
Whether music notes have taken over,
Or rather the nicotine that you inhale.
Where you've got music notes,
I've got daisies.
Where you've got nicotine,
I've got hot air.
So let the music notes blow wind over my daisies,
And let the hot air and nicotine commingle to create smoke.
We both enjoy a good cigarette in the daisy field.
Don't we.