Me and the vivid girl in our hammock to the stars staring into the fire before tv, the remote-control's on mars in the dope of the pigment, in a poetic state of mind in a flood of country, we lay down to kill some time and we spoke languidly of the northern bee and collecting dewdrops for tea underneath the cannonball tree we were high, we were sherpa-high we conspired against old friends we said we must be friends or die and we've died a thousand times since then and we spoke long, at length of the fight of flee and of nothing in particularly underneath the cannonball tree we're at the point where we love or hate it we can write it down and obliterate it when we're at the point when we can neither love nor hate it we can lay down and obliterate it