The cold wind rolled on in, leading those birds to flee, in search for a place a much better place than the mall, because I can't stop thinking of that day when all these blue men were made out of quick clay, selling me junk, telling me how to be. As time passes by the hill gets steeper and sun remains high above. you walk right past that old familiar feeling and you suddenly realize that everything is something and it could be what it seems. The sky is blue and I know youre the blues, youre the blues John, you're blues...

the sun never stops working and the lung fish are now marching and breathing air across the land, telling me...telling me junk, telling me how to be. you're the blues John, You're the blues...