Bitches come and go (You know that) Money come and go (You know that) Love come and go (Don't shit last) Me and my bitch, took a little trip Down to the garden, took a little dip (oh no) Apple juice falling from her lips took a little sip (boom) Took a

What will I do I ran to the garden and the rose touch my nose and the grass touch my toes and I thought of you I looked to the sky and the sky was passing by like a lazy butterfly and I thought of you Oh what will I do if you never come true If you never

If these are the things that Dreams are made of Why don't I dream anymore I'm in the garden All the trees bear fruit I have to pick them before they fall I finally grab one I hold it in my hand I open it up

A country dance was being held in a garden I felt a bump and heard an "Oh, beg your pardon" Suddenly I saw polka dots and moonbeams All around a pug-nosed dream The music started and was I the perplexed one I held my breath and said "May I have the next

So just take my hand, you know that I will never leave your side. Slow down, we've got time left to be lazy All the kids have bloomed from babies into flowers in our eyes. We've got fifty good years left to spend out in the garden I don't care to beg

With your big eyes And your big lies I saw you creeping round the garden What are you hiding? I beg your pardon, Don't tell me nothing I used to think that I could trust you I was your woman You were my knight and

So tell me your secrets And join me in pieces (Eternally yours) I'm ready to bury all of my bones I'm ready to lie but say I won't To rot in this garden made of stones Eternally yours I'm ready to bleed to make amends And sleep in this dirt we call our

Now come home Nice dream, if you think that you're strong enough Nice dream, if you think you belong enough They love me like I was their brother They protect me Listen to me They dug me my very own garden Gave me sunshine

I gotta get home there's a garden to tend There's fruit on the ground and the birds have all moved back into my attic Whistling static When the young learn to fly I will patch all the holes up again Well I can't believe that my lime tree is dead I

Where's LA? Whatever happened to the city we knew? Tell my mother, my brothers My father, and others In an old apartment Down in the garden I was born on a sunny day When the riots ruled the streets like a Sunday parade