Oh, sleeping in the trees. Traveling light, an unseen breeze. I never really thought I'd get caught in that quad, but I was wrong. Oh, I wanna get well and find a skill I can sell. Because no one buys what I try to give away. Trapped in the city. No sleep, no more. Just stay up yelling at pimps and whores. Whores? And what for? What for? Is this art or war? And who made the part of my brain that makes music feel like pain? "Go to bed whiteass! Get straight! Get a job! You calling me crazy? What's your problem? Are you lazy? Disrespect me? You gotta pay me."