I am a dead tree
There's no other way to describe me.
I am a withering plant. Everything you can do? I can't
And I wonder why the receptionist has a ponytail
When he's balding at the top?
And I wonder who gets to decide when all of this shit stops

As I plant roots at the highest point
And I talk myself down til I'm out of joint
And where do I go when I get down?
I'll probably stay in bed, if you're going to town

If I'm a dead tree
Can you tell me what the fuck did I used to be?
Cause I'm pretty sure that this form is an improvement on the last
And I'm pretty sure, I could go back to fucking up pretty fast