|
I've been at so many crossroads |
|
that I've forgotten all the turns |
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and I've spent all my money |
|
on ways to wipe out my concerns |
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But the therapy in a tall glass of gin |
|
is not something that leaves you blissful within |
|
in the morning |
|
the daylight is broken |
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just like the night before |
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and we keep sending a mayday |
|
that never reaches the shore |
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The more that you sleep the more tired you get |
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I try to forgive but it's hard |
|
When you turn me over |
|
to the war |
|
turn me over |
|
to the war |
|
the therapy in a tall glass of gin |
|
is not something that leaves you blissful within |
|
I've seen so many faces |
|
with masks made out of clay |
|
so stiff and immobile |
|
just like the games they play |
|
The more that you sleep the more tired you get |
|
I try to forgive but it's hard to forget |
|
How good it would feel to be senseless and numb |
|
to not really care at all |
|
When you turn me over |
|
to the war |
|
turn me over |
|
to the war |
