Instrumental

It's a long walk home,
and your feet and your head
are already sore.
And the telephone is ringing
back home by your bed.
So you figure you'll make the most
of each painfull step.

It's allright,
you've got your own remedies,
ashtrays full of burned out memories,
And things you wish you'd said 
turning cartwheels round your head.

And it's all night
cause it's all that you know,
Always to drunk to drive,
Too dumb to let go
of the voices in your head
as they lay you down to rest.

on the floor by your word,
with a coat for a quilt.
in the ashes you dropped
and the liquor you spilt.
and the voices in your head
choose to ignore you.

It sounds insane
but it feels so right.
Your incremental suicide 
is all that keeps you alive.

She said,
"I'm still not sure exactly why I'm calling.
I know you never answer the telephone.
And I guess by now all my plants are dying.
Your thumbs were never green,
just stained with nicotine.
And your hands
were always cold.
And I don't know why
I feel like I should explain myself.
Each bruise is worth
at least a thousand words.
But the worst part of it all
is that I couldn't help but call to say 
tonight I won't be coming home.
Tomorrow night I won't be coming home.

One of the nurses on my floor
said she could help me.
said her sister runs this place
somewhere upstate.
She said if I go back to you
next time you'll kill me-
It's a home for battered wives.
Is that what I've become?
How could you do that
to someone you said you loved?
How can you do this,
to someone you say you love?

But I remember how it was
before it started.
You used to sing,
You Are My Sunshine,
to me.
Then the whiskey got you mean,
and you forgot how to sing.
I can't remember
when you started swinging.
It was only every once in a while
you'd start to swing.
If you'd just give up the booze,
and pick up the telephone,
tomorrow I'd be coming home to you.
Just pick up the telephone
and tomorrow I'll be home,
Tomorrow
I'll be home
with you.

She packs up her troubles
in her dkny bag,
and smiles,
smiles, 
smiles.
She's got zanex for anxiety,
And Prozac to kill the poetry.
A little adavan to wash away
The dreams the zoloft can't erase.
And perkacets when all the others fail.
She packs up her troubles
in her dkny bag,
and smiles,
smiles,
smiles.
She talks about her drug abuse,
Her battles with the booze.
But now she's thirteen years
Clean and Sober.
She packs up her troubles
in her dkny bag,
and smiles,
smiles,
smiles.
While the old men at the bar 
watch terrified.  

I tripped over
a line you drew in the sand.
With so many lines,
there's nowhere to stand.
It's a minefield of consequences,
a battle of wills,
and I'm defenseless.

You can only say sorry
so many times
before you start to choke
on your swallowed pride.
My apologies
are just your means of keeping score.

I'm not sorry any more,
I'm all done.

I guess you've won. 

In the pallet bonfire light
you drink warm beer
and watch them fight,
The meatheads and the stoned,
the jocks and the drones,
the bullies and the bruised,
the useless and the used.
And all the pretty girls
are stuck with simple thoughts.
And all the simple boys
are hung with mammoth cocks.
And all the small-pricked, 
thoughtful clowns like you,
are bound to fall in love with booze,
because you fell in love
then lost her
to a blissfull idiot.

You're drowning in the deep end
of the gene pool.
With all the poets and the altruistic artist fools.
The lifeguard can't swim,
he just sits there 
and grins
in idiot bliss.

In the bar's forgiving light,
you drink cheap gin
and watch them fight.
The yuppies and the tools,
the knaves and the fools,
white collars and blues,
the useless and the used.
And all the pretty girls
are stuck with simple lives.
And all the simple boys
are fucking each others wives

And all the drunken, 
thoughtful clowns like you,
Are divorced but still in love with booze,
because you fell in love
then turned into
a blissful idiot.

Poorly staged breakdowns
and passive attacks.
You count all your friends
on the knives in your back
you give them a twist,
rub salt in your wounds,
It's all about you.

The chip on your shoulder
is painstakingly carved,
and proudly displayed
like a toddlers first scar.
It's your red badge of outrage,
Your cracker-jack tattoo,
Its all about you.

When they're tired of asking
what's the matter.
What comes after?
What'll you do with your days.

When that last damp shoulder
shrugs you off.
When there's no one to hear you complain.
What'll you do with your days? 

It's funny how it falls away,
the colors start to bleed,
the pattern starts to fade.
Until you wonder 
if you've ever been sure.
You can't remember 
what it meant,
or who you did it for.
And the shadows
grow longer by the hour,
The blind faith trips,
and the sweet taste sours. 

You'd cut the clothesline down if you could,
Let you're clean laundry 
roll round the neighborhood.
Then you'd write clever songs,
about the dead spots on lawns,
and the havoc 
your wardrobe 
had wrought.

But most of your neighbors
have guns.
They drink more than they think,
and they don't drink enough.
So you smoke cigarettes,
sit and stare at the fence,
and pretend 
that you don't 
want to run.

And the calluses soften with age.
The sweet gentle scars
from your third hand guitars,
are lost like the music you made,
the dive-bar stool muse,
and the youth
you were bound to mislay.

Instrumental