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The first thing i remember was the friction in the room |
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And that brown spinet piano that never played in tune |
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The cruel impatient tyrant, the frustrated malcontent |
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The need to find the pieces, and the absence of cement |
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No one ever told me about the right way to love |
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And no one ever showed me what we're supposed to be made of |
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So don't be too forthright about what you think that |
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I should be |
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And I'll willingly accept your low opinion of me |
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The last thing |
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I remember was the slamming of the door |
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And the resonance of my imperfection broke the silence once more |
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The selfish angry bastard who doesn't want to hear |
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I tried to learn compassion you turned the other ear |
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The worn out broken record who doesn't fit the mold |
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The righteous independent, the mood so harsh and cold |
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Momma never told me about the right way to love |
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And daddy never showed me what we're supposed to be made of |
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So don't be too forthright about what you think that i should be |
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And i'll willingly accept your low opinion of me |
