She worked her way through a cheap pack of cigarettes. Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect. And all the boys, they were saying they were into it.
I'm in my bed and you're not here and there's no one to blame but the drink and my wandering hands. Forget what I said It's not what I meant and I can't take it back, I can't unpack the baggage you left.
You said you care, and you missed me too. And I'm well aware I write too many songs about you and the coffee's out at the Beachwood Cafe and it kills me 'cause I know we've ran out of things we can say.
Just stop your crying, it's a sign of the times. Welcome to the final show. Hope you're wearing your best cloche. You can't bribe the door on your way to the sky.
