If I had a quarter for every single time that I held my tongue instead of speaking my mind,
then I could have a mansion.

A big ol' mansion, with shiny things inside
that I'd never touch, scared they'd break, oh I'd
have a butler who I'd feel guilty for,
making food and answering the door.
My face would be on some magazine
for gluttonous people who try to stay lean.

Would my music exist?
Would I exist?
My friends would warn me,
but I'd insist
that the money was worth it,
that my patience deserved it.

If I had a quarter for every single time that I held my tongue instead of speaking my mind,
then I could have a mansion.

A big ol' mansion, with zero friends inside
comfy bed but I'd cry every night.
No mom to sing my heart out to,
no Marie to say "be good to you".
My chef would make boring food
with no onions or peeples to chew.

Would my paintings exist?
Would I exist?
Without my mother's encouragement,
would this be it?

If I had a quarter for every single time that I held my tongue instead of speaking my mind,
then I would give them all back.

A little ol' house, with my loved ones inside
that's all I need to stay alive.
I may have been kicked while I was down,
doesn't mean that I can't stick around.
I've learned from my quiet days
that you shouldn't speak up without something to say.

So my art exists.
So my heart exists.
All my people are lovely,
I'm so thankful they love me.
And maybe now,
I will think out loud,
after all, you're listening
and I'm still around.