the cigarettes layin in the ashtray again like im just waiting for my days to end cause i cant say the good things to them but i hope that one will maybe stay my friend ive been living letting my hands fall like i dont wanna do this dance no more and my heels where theyve worn through my pants are sore but maybe thats the reason why my past is torn growin old like the leaves as we blow through the breeze not a whole lot of ease as were told what they please my thumb is singed as the matchstick burns laughing as life told me that its not my turn i asked if its just pain then what have i learned what happens to the butter if its always churned the stale smoke hangs from my head to knees whyd i ever let the better get ahead of me the doors will still open without the keys if you know what is not what you think you see
