Fleetwood Mac is on the radio inside as I look up at the morning sky,
In the east,
The sky is a mixtures of light pinks, blues, and gold,
The moon still shining brightly in the morning sky.

I take a drag off my Winston,
It's taste stale lingering on my tongue,
But a small price of smoking them all night.
My eyes are burning and my joints ache,
Getting older *****.