| Dust moves off his arms and chest
|
| As the vent window opens in his Volkswagen
|
| Hundreds of Impalas and station wagons
|
| Idle at the train crossing
|
| The puddles that surround him
|
| Are always made from sweat
|
| The open sore on his face reminds him
|
| That his blood is simply temporary
|
| The gas is blowing in the trees
|
| One whiff has brought me to my knees
|
| At first you practice, practice to yourself
|
| You are the very air, you are the very air
|
| You are the very air he breathes
|
| His head throbs and fills
|
| With a big machine bag
|
| I must be the richest man
|
| To ever stand in line at the bank
|
| The gas is blowing in the trees
|
| One whiff has brought me to my knees
|
| At first you practice, practice to yourself
|
| You are the very air, you are the very air
|
| You are the very air he breathes |