Rene make a promise to me, let your hair grow to your knees, and I will not be far, you'll not be in harms way, Rene. The stragglers bring mud to your door, and trouble for all those who mourn, but do not answer it, stay inside and leave the lights unlit, and night and day I watch you hide away Rene. Oh, the full moon, can't afford the pull that's coming from the likes of you. And oh, to tell you. I bet it said, "if it wasn't for me, the waves won't come." High in its bed it goes moving with your moving car, it said, "the hardest part is getting older, the hardest part is getting old." Rene you've a way to row, through a lake of fire and fog of cigarette smoke. The dirt-eating moon, don't hurt her, be good.