The Marlboro Man has died again, yet he lived so long. If I come to be so lucky then, admit you were wrong. There’s nothing flowering. No sun and no rain. Nothing is alive but my brain. The golden woman has lighted me. I long to be there, though if I’m to fall too soon to be, I would call that fair. The smoke is billowing,ruthless and profane. Nothing is on fire but my brain. The more my mind changes, oh, the more it stays the same. I’ve met a million ghosts down here, but I know them all by name. The silvery Moon does touch the Earth with its crafty tongue. So while selfish spirits seek rebirth, we seek to be sung. Madmen are catering the feasts of the sane. Nothing is for real but my brain.