"They" try to say that "happiness" above all makes you feel free.

And that the Georgia sun's warmth in fall should sourround me,

With evocations of new beginnings and cigarette smoke. 

Yet  it's all one big joke. No one will really ever know.

Because they can try to count every allusive star in my moring sky.

But that doesnt mean that they've counted them all right.

And they can try to dry my eyes as I wipe them on my chashmire sweater. 

As they can try to wipe my nose, as I sneeze me life away, due to the bipolar weather.

They can try to count the blades of grass in the open meadows. 

As they can try to count the raindrops flowing down my window.

And in that moment they can try to count all of lifes creatures great and small.

And I'll just sit here and watch them try count them all. 

And Ill try to remeber happiness in the thought of the Georgia sun upon my face.

Amd Ill try to remeber happiness through the winds and their perculiar taste.

I swear I wont let my time go to waste.

And they can try to count what I have left.

The hours the minutes and the seconds as I use my breath, to speak, to scream, and pray that they hear. 

That happines is not in what I've come to know.

But happiness will forever be in the place I call home.