I no longer know what it means to be me. Somewhere along the way I think I’ve lost it.
I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it, and on my way I lost it.
Am I a mother, a wife, an independent woman? The soundtrack in my head rewrites and warps my childhood ditties. A tisket-a-tasket, a green and yellow basket, I wrote a letter to my love and on the way I lost it. No, no, I didn’t lose a letter, or my love; I’ve just lost my way.
I no longer know what it means to be me. I’m a hard worker, but perhaps not hard enough.
I’ve been working . . . all the livelong day.
Am I the captain, or Dinah, or just stuck in the kitchen? Is there anyone here? Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, someone’s in the kitchen I know, someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on the old banjo. No, no, I can’t hear the banjo, and there’s nobody here. O Captain! My Captain!
I no longer know what it means to be me. I have to be more than a grasshopper sittin’ on the railroad track.
She is a spunky gal . . . with curly eyes and laughing hair.
Am I just a chicken sneeze from a silly nursery rhyme or just an aged maiden fair? One can only hope. Fare thee well, fare thee well, fare thee well my fairy fay. I’m afraid I’m no more Polly today than I was in my youth. No, no, don’t look for me in Louisiana ‘cause I’ve not been there.
I no longer know what it means to be me. I’ve lost my zip and truth is elusive.
Mr. Bluebird, where have you gone?
Am I honest, actual, or satisfied? Is that land of plenty, plenty of sunshine headed my way? I look over my shoulder. Is that a wonderful feeling, a wonderful day? Where is that damn bluebird? No, no, don’t lose your zip-a-dee-do-dah, just try to remember what it means to be you.