Most of the brine has got to boil away Most of the air has got to choke you Most of June I spent in jail again I don't mean jail, exactly Up in the pine tree Red squirrel looking down at me I am losing control of the language again I am losing control of the language again Most of the things I used to hold onto Most of the things I used to say to you
Most of the ways I knew around the local roads Are disappearing daily High in the cottonwood You were looking down at me and it sure looked good Hair hanging down in the leaves Your neck tilted back to make a rainbow I was losing control of the language again I am losing control of the language again