Dust moves off his arms and chest As the vent window opens in his volkswagen Hundreds of impalas and stationwagons Idle at the train crossing The puddles that surround him Are always made from sweat The open sore on his face reminds him That his blood is simply temporary
The gas is blowing in the trees One whiff has brought me to my knees At first you practice, practice to yourself You are the very air, you are the very air You are the very air he breathes
His head throbs and fills With a big machine bag I must be the richest man To ever stand in line at the bank
The gas is blowing in the trees One whiff has brought me to my knees At first you practice, practice to yourself You are the very air, you are the very air You are the very air he breathes