I am filled with gardens and fully grown trees.

I am ill, a boy and a Norman-Wells fee.

I have breasts and boy they've served me well, you see.

I'm impressed you never seem to notice me.

But where are the chocolates Leonard Cohen spoke of?

And the burning of the midnight lamp.

Where did Super Mario and my fourth grade teacher go to?

I'm so alone, baby I'm so alone.

I've been had with magazines and luxuries.

Not that bad, the old man pays and I'm at ease.

A dozen eggs and fancy meals become a tease.

Lazy legs, you'll surely never cope with me.

Where are the antacids Kurt Cobain slurred of?

And the "Rocking In the Freeworld" youth.