I'm walkin' down the corridor of the seventh floor of the Grace Hospital.
I'm gonna make it to the end. I'm gonna smoke a cigarette. The cigarette is my only friend.

I can hear my slippers a-slappin'. I can feel my gown a-flappin'. I've got my whole being set into making it to the end of the seventh floor corridor of the Grace Hospital.

These are my people. Hello Joe, how ya doin'? Don't I take good care of you, Joe?
Mrs. Bergman, how you doin'? What? No, I don't have your mail!
I'm not the friggin' mailman.

I'm going to make it to the end. And when I make it to the end I will smoke my cigarette. They make it very hard to smoke here but I've got it all figured out: they make it hard and that builds up your strength and then they want you to check out.

There's a man in traffic below. He's all revved up with nowhere to go. He's a-cursin' and a-swearin' and watchin' the rain drops roll, roll down his windshield.
He's stuck in rush hour traffic and he's sayin', "Oh I shoulda bought that farm in the country. I woulda been home by now. I woulda been milkin' cows and sloppin' pigs and sayin' benign things to my benign wife instead of sittin' here lookin' up the tail-pipe of someone I do not even know and probably wouldn't like.
And lookin' up at the face at the end of the seventh floor of the Grace Hospital."

I'm walking down the corridor of the seventh floor of the Grace Hospital. Everything's green here, like a green nightmare. They come every Thursday morning. They spend an hour in the boardroom making decisions like this, they say: "Oh yes. Green like the grass! Like the trees! That'll make everyone brighten up and feel so happy, make 'em feel so pleased!"
Well, I'm so pleased that when I get out of here I'm gonna write fuckin' greeting cards tellin' everyone how sweet it is here. Green. It just reminds everybody of their own shit and their own puke and oh, the blonde she pats her hair