coffee and cigarettes have become part of me. My lungs are black and my blood is brown. I find myself sitting in my house planning out the music I want played at my wedding and at my funeral. My mind does not exist past the year 1973. The coffee and cigarettes are lesser evil substitutes for heroin and whiskey. He just sits and watches my self destruction. He thinks he is letting me express myself, but only because he does not know what else to do.
As I sit alone on this couch with my dog by my side, Bob Dylan sings my soul back to me. Knockin' On Heaven's door brings me to tears. Penny Lane is sound asleep and I envy her ability to block the world out. I wish I could sleep. He paw twitches and I wonder what she dreams of. I wish I could dream.
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street.
And now you find out you're gonna have to get used to it.
You said you'd never compromise with the mystery tramp.
But now you realize he's not selling any alibis.
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes,
And ask him do you want to make a deal?