I can't tell you why or how or where or if the weather's fair cause I'm a regal son I'm so fake noir from the mouths of babes comes a deep black tar from my inverted projectors you can see that I'm not this man's protector we're just killing time with the governor's strange conjecture drinking his wine eating bakeries' sweet confections
in the fields of gold where the whistling blows a bed of onyx foam and a paper hat float I wear many hats I can't draw the line my point is not fine