I've got a habit of looking up at the sky, to stay rootedncuz souls don't die, I don't think,nthey all just get diluted (it's true and)nnand everyone is looking roundnasking “what am I supposed to do withnall this information? –njust give me back my youth.'nnbaby, your eyes are cold and jadedncome with me, and live unpremeditatednand even though you might lose control of what you meant to try to benit's only vanitynnyou blame sinners and cigarettesnbut you'd better just get over all thatncuz that TV's been real busy making subtlety extinct nnwere we wiser, maybe if we knewnwhat starts the souring of a viewnthen we wouldn't all drink so muchnto relax away the kinksnnbaby, this party makes me feel jadednso lonely and premeditatednand even though we might lose control of what we meant to try to benit's only vanitynnonly vanitynit's not what you meannor how you dreamnabout the life you'd like to leadnthat's all forgotten, for the way it seemsnnlookin out on a summer's daynis better when it's on the waynthan in retrospect, when your intellectnmakes sure that you've forgottennnthose side affects we can't preventnlike where april through august wentnand how we ripened, and were leftnhere bruised and cold and rottennnbaby, slide on into bed; you've made itnwalk in sleep, and the risk is eradicatednnow you know, you won't lose control of what you meant to try to benand it's only vanitynit's only vanity