You are flocks of wrinkled hospital gowns, flying to the junkyard
You are memories of good ***
You are cigarettes dropping from speeding cars
You are the wind, you hear no regrets

You are passed out in the back of dive bars
You move hordes and cities with words
You are chemicals mixing and seething
You were innocent, crushed by the law

You are paradox whirling and singing
You're a judge, that's the best you can do
You are a red wheelbarrow, a sick young girl, and a doctor who writes poems

You are dead to me, dead to me.
You are dead to me, dead.