And if some pretentious ass poem can stop me
from thinking about the way your laugh sounds,
about the way your skin feels in the rain,
about how I would rather be miserable with you
than happy with anyone else in the world.
If some pretentious ass poem can do all that?
Then I am gone with the wind, I am on the road,
I have flown over the fucking cuckoo’s nest,
I am gone, I am gone, I am gone.