All of my friends died yesterday in a car crash on the interstate, and I'm dead too, I'm playing, faking movements in the trunk of this Lincoln hearse. Yeah he's a zombie, and his name is Jake, and he's got bad blood, and it won't change -- you're a stray dog, and I'm a bed of rocks, won't you come and piss, come take a load off.

All of Sea Change and the seasons shaking me, I get drunk and crawl around like a worm with my skin soaked in bitter blood -- yeah Beck, I need your soul to take a load off. I'm kamikaze white indian ghost, see the world sideways after a bag of blow, got the electric lemonade, skin like rotten fruit -- I was not much good in the first place, babe, to help you.

You say that nothing will change, and I agree, so it all stays the same. My mean streak and your lingering -- you're a poet and I'm the comic relief. I always sneeze at the end of the scene.

All of my friends died yesterday -- took one look at them, told 'em to go away. I'm running out of time to hang out with you fools, so when you die, the joke's on you. Now I'm lonely, and it's comfortable, just the TV and a pen that I can hold in my good hand, and watch the ink drip -- just fix a drink and try not to think about it.

Yeah I love you, yeah you're the worst, and I'll be just like you, because I'm goddamn cursed -- born above some evil sign, on some evil fucking ground, I was never tough in the first place and my skin's still thin now.