there's a rizla in my hand and nobody disarming me.
the irony of something i call medicine harming me
is strong and is the inspiration 'hind this song.
i know where i belong, but am i wrong
to simply move along?
with solar rays and no ashtrays -
perhaps not, but it's the thought that counts the most,
and every host's responsible for his guest;
don't keep your doors closed.
of a life that's never lived;
to have never lived is to be
hit with a reality check
at 43 or maybe 44.
what's half of 44?
that's 22; don't close your door.