Well you look so fuckin' gone,
Drinkin' Wicked Strawberry Blondes,
As I suck down the car bombs-- we love alcohol.
And you kiss me on the couch--
Ask me what I'm thinkin' 'bout--
Ask me what I think I'll spout out before the fall.
And the matches on the floor,
They don't mean much anymore.
I can't light your cigarettes like I did before.
And the drugs, they cloud my head,
But they help me get to bed,
'cause I'd think of her--
instead now I think of you.
You said "She doesn't seem so blue,
"I don't think she's missin' you.
"I don't think she gives a thought to what you do."
So I'll leave this fuckin' place,
Let the rain drip down my face,
Let the tears forget incase they might think of you.
Created: Jan 12, 2011late_night_listener Document Media