Without this I cannot see straight.
Pushing buttons all day,
Completing the tasks that you set for me
Obeying an ink-smudged listing of 365 days
It doesn't move me anywhere.
Days are not living. Days are dying.
I squeeze in the things that make me live:
Drumsticks, and snow covered mountains,
and angry rock and roll, and beautiful melody,
and a red hunk of metal attached to four tires,
and unconditional friends, and your eyes so soft.
Without them you could not see straight
and without all of these I cannot see straight.