Every record that I hear is a competition to be won,
and I shouldn't give a shit, these chords aren't daring any one. [1]
But it's that daring exposition, all the accomplishments I'm missing
and I'm done, done, done being subject to the hierarchy of song. [2]

And if here's where I'm unwelcome, then let me be exiled
and if the South will not receive me, I'll keep drifting to the East,
until the shores of Carolina force my footsteps to the sea.
Among the channels I will finally be led steadily and blindly
by the three, three, three who will protect me.

Spirit Grandmother Marie, who would play soundtracks on repeat,
who'd follow a tiny me through the hallways and the streets [3],
who had cancer stirring deep, only her body left to speak her words.

And a puppy with webbed feet who'd always tower over me,
a Newfoundland from Colorado with outstanding pedigree. [4]
Stormy died in my mother's eyes, closing sullenly to grieve that day.

And a vision of the one I'd love, who would materialize,
the very muse, my heart's excuse to live a poet's life.
Whose words I could recite, whose body I could trace in night's thick shade.
Who could pull against the current, who could resurface from that sharpest wave. [5]

And I exist now, as a fish now, or a coral reef or seashell.
And I exist now, as a fish now, or a coral reef or seashell. [6]