Those in the city, Time they enable, 5 or 6 lines on the dinner table, Humming on high like a restless horse in a stable, Until that mother-fucker cuts their cable To those in the suburbs the time may pass, Depending on the Tea, The Nugs and the Grass And as the hour of 1 in the morning shall pass, They look outside on the sidewalk at a passing girl, "Won't you look at that ___" For those on the farm, Time is an essence, They do no harm until the bottle makes it's presence, And to those in the woods, Dust is their doom, And time has no meaning through the eye of the mushroom
