Turn Up Bob Dylan
The door has been closed for 36 hours.
People strewn around the room like broken dolls
I keep nodding off and coming back
Not knowing what or which is real
The air is heavy with smoke
The opium rolls like a gray wave
Someone is slapping their arm in the corner
A fix is about to be made.
Spoons and syringes lie around like a war zone
But everyone is dying here
No one can be saved
It only takes time to kill them
Bodies ravaged by addiction
Minds that know too much truth
Slip pass the guardian at the doorway
His cross is merely a sign
For self incrimination and disease
Left here for the slowly declining
We're so damn high we can’t see the bottom
Upon which we lay
By the way turn up Bob Dylan
I think I have found my way
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