Music By Jerry Garcia
Words By Robert Hunter

Released April 1980

I told Althea I was feeling lost Lacking in some direction Althea told me upon scrutiny That my back might need protection I told Althea that treachery Was tearing me limb from limb Althea told me, now cool down boy Settle back easy, Jim You may be Saturday's child all grown Moving with a pinch of grace You may be a clown in the burying ground Or just another pretty face You may be the fate of Ophelia Sleeping and perchance to dream Honest to the point of recklessness Self-centred to the extreme Ain't nobody messin' with you but you Your friends are getting most concerned Loose with the truth, maybe its your fire Baby, I hope you don't get burned When the smoke has cleared, she said That's what she said to me You're gonna want a bed to lay your head And a little sympathy There are things you can replace And others you cannot The time has come to weigh those things This space is gettin' hot You know this space is gettin' hot I told Althea, I'm a roving sign That I was born to be a bachelor Althea told me, OK that's fine So now I'm trying to catch her Can't talk to you without talking to me We're guilty of the same old thing Thinking a lot about less and less And forgetting the love we bring

Ice Nine Publishing; used by permission