Sit down, and fire away, I know it's tricky when you're feeling low, when you feel like your flavour has gone the way of a pre-shelled pistachio I know you're weighed down, fed up with your heavy boots laced with melancholy notions all your own. I do - like sugar- tend toward the brittle and sticky when spun and I know my demeanor has gone the way of a photo left out in the sun so I try to keep myself in lilies and flax seeds and what's the folly of fooling just yourself Sit down and smoke away, I wouldn't knock it til you're in them shoes and I know that our subtlety blows away as a blush it gives way to a bruise but seemly we'd freely pay the trade off, a dry rot to take the weight off and swap the boots for red shoes.