Life contains many headaches  Like a stroll in the desert,  Without a map  We're forced to choose  The most pleasant path we can find  Towards oblivion    Don't listen to what they say  Fifty thousand people,  Are wrong every day  For a decaying piece of bread,  Fifty thousand people,  Will stomp on you, every day    Old socks come off  New socks come on  Old socks go to the washing machine  And then return to you, good as new  Until they reach disintegration.    But I -  Have been shone upon  I've traded in my box of broken hearts  For a lifetime supply  Of air