They're pickin' up pieces of me,
While they're pickin' up pieces of you.
In a bag you will be, before the day is over.
Were you looking for somewhere to be.
Or looking for someone to do.
Stupid me, to believe that I could trust in stupid you.
And on the tip of my tongue,
Were, words that came out all wrong.
'Cause they were drowned in Southern Comfort,
Left to dry-out in the Sun,
The noon-day Sun.
Don't leave me here, to pass through time,
Without a map, or road sign.
Don't leave me here, my guiding light,
wouldn't know where to begin.
I asked the Kings of Medicine,
But it seems that they've lost their powers.
Now all I'm left with is the hours.