Too many people have tried to turn our world into gold; Not to want money, but to want a life of alchemic medieval times. The science is silent, and death rustles on like leaves in the wind.
Evening came; A long walk under cottonwood trees took me past faces that bore no blame. No one remembered my name.
Fun that flashed like raw flesh where we slept, We awakened the luxuria we kept secret, And boiled our lust away beneath a desert sun.