I work the day shift
and work the night shift with you on my mind
dust covers your old wooden picture frame.
I clear away the debris and again
I'm back to where we left off
me chasing you
trying to grab your hand one more time
But I always seem to just grasp the end of your sleeve.
I sit on the curb with my hands up to my face
and remember when I drew a heart with our names in the sand
I try to figure out why this dust covers my heart with me waking up wiping it all off again.
Do I wanna let the dust build so I forget about you and you wither away?
Do I wanna sit at the table and look behind my back and not see you fumbling in the dish water?
Do I wanna go threw my laundry and find clothes you left behind?
I dont have the answer to these questions because as much as I wanted to stop you from going
I know I wasnt right for you
and I know the best thing for you was to run away without even giving me a last kiss.
But baby I miss you
and I want to set this house on fire so it doesnt smell of you.

A wobblie stool
is so lame
Everwhere I go to drink or eat
a wobblie stool always the same
infact I look way more drunk because of this **** chair.
I try to kick my foot up to stop it
Try switchin stools
Try to put a box of matches underneathe it.
nothing works
it all boils down
To me not being heavy enough to way it down.

I see you with your new man
I see how he doesn't ******* right
cuz your walkin right
and not bowl legged
cuz I gave you Swayze roadhouse ****
and hes given you fresh prince
understand I ate that *****
put a finger in your *** and ****
he gets a handy and blows his nut
You know I'm in that ***** the whole night
have you cash in sick days

I'm back
baby momma still asking for fresh diapers
but I'm asking for last months rent

greasy hands
and rusty tools
bolts and shop rags
that dry my tough skin
i see the clock tick down
as me and my brother work away
the money makes us patient
because our time awaits
sick back crack the tall tops
and shots bring back the days when we sat on bar stools and talked ****
but when the magazine cover cops our last names
we will be sittin in the shade and our dickies are in the dryer waiting to be folded
creased and soon we will be pampered on
and we will sit back and smoke cigs and talk about the days when we talked about gettin rich
now were rich and talking about what we will do next
paychecks are old news
the new girls are old news
and the old news are our new stories
just sittin and listenin to wu tang
and sparkin up mexican bluegrass
and not cashin in our g pass
flippin pages
flippin pages

i see the vine
and pick each grape
feel the juice in between my toes
i watch the vine slowly grow
and see it die each winter
but i know spring is near
and ill be back out on the fields
watching my babies blossum
and ill pick each grape
and turn into yuppie juice
and poor mans fluids
that will sooth the tummies
and make good conversations that  my feet made

if I was to see my soul
off rambling around
I'd catch it and keep it safe in my hand
like a monarch butterfly
I'd let it rest it my palms