I know somewhere beyond the sky
My brain floats up around, so high.
The smoke fills up my lungs and room
And in this state I feel no gloom.
I can’t feel mad, or sad, or rage;
I should feel happy at this age.
But why do I need weed and wine
To make me feel alright and fine?
See when they’re gone, I feel so sad,
and hurt, enraged, lonely, and mad.
So while I can enjoy this high,
I’ll let my brain float past the sky.