Oh self-ignitionnI can feel her suitcase sensing muchnIt was the wrong permissionnMiss nineteen ninety ninety ninety nine nine nine ninenCharles James Sofa and a household trucenAnd her every Wednesday night you can count her groovesnI woke up in a house I could understandnThe descendants of defendants were making demandsnnGenerally thinking backwards nOn the psychedelic promises God make to me in the darknSome of these kids don't have wordsnThey're as helpless as parakeets in a parknCouldn't believe it when I saw that you wrotenThat a burning passenger shouldn't moo in a boatnIf dreams are your body telling you its confusednThen I've got a dream I think you could usennAll lakes encryption in the lawless roomsnWhere you finally lost your healthnI read the evening edition and the pumpkin on the porch is trying to heal itselfnI don't like magic and I don't like tricksnHavin' a hell of a time believin' we existnThe mail man dreams he's Paul Revere nHe wants the whole town to buy him a beernnAnd I have to remember that your not wanting menDoesn't make me any less heren