Two years way in here and I fear that I’ve got the fever.
My best friend I look to him every morning in the mirror,
He says, “Imagine there’s no sound, as the world is falling down.
That’s what it’s like to be in here.”
Standing in a cell buried deep inside some county,
I screamed and dropped to my knees but nobody could hear me.
In the cell block I am alone but there’s traces of home,
between the cracks of the cement and courtyard streets.
I searched for the answers while looking in the sky
sang the blues and wrote them down, “Oh the days go by.”
There’s a sinner in the shadow of a preacher condemning in the streets,
there are junkies in their cold and there are lovers in their heat.
And this addict keeps on asking you for some loose change,
but as you reach into your pockets no money there remains.
You’ll pull out the capsules that have stolen all your time.
I can’t tell a difference between your time and mine.
But I really don’t think that it matters anymore.