Life contains many headaches

Like a stroll in the desert

Without a map

We're forced to choose

The most pleasant path we can find

Towards oblivion

Don't listen to what they say

Fifty thousand people

Are wrong every day

For a decaying piece of bread

Fifty thousand people

Will stomp on you, every day

Old socks come off

New socks come on

Old socks go to the washing machine

And then return to you, good as new

Until they reach disintegration

But I -

Have been shone upon

I've traded in my box of broken hearts

For a lifetime supply

Of air