Even when I'm talking,
E'en in the darkest nights alone and cold,
With abs'lutely nothing,
No voice in my head telling what's what,
Because how would it know?
All it has seen came ready-made to use,
All it comes up with are more lines to toe,
More reasons to be what it always has,
Like a tree with its roots,
Like a miner who through thirty year's work,
Never took off his boots,
Like a baby,
Ya, that's about my brain,
Uncaring, selfish, demanding as hell,
That forty years older'd be deemed insane.