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.
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.
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.