Who am I, I shouted on the corner of two streets.
Who am I, went looking to the bottom of a bottle.
I’m somewhere between Baudelaire and Mad magazine.
Just sitting there…… full throttle.
I don’t think God makes mistakes
and I don’t think I’m a really doin’ wrong,
but somedays I think I don’t know what I’m thinkin’,
thinkin’ I could ever write a song.
Who am I, I played on a stage last night in Georgia.
Who am I, I et eggs in Mississippi.
On the phone, I could hear it in her voice, she was naked.
and I could tell, she didn’t miss me.
Who am I, my name? There is no stranger word.
Who am I, my mother does not recognize me.
Why would I insult this pitiful world
while looking in the eyes of such beauty?