He bounced around from town to town, never becoming whole. 'Cause in his parents' eyes, he was a parasite, hiding in a hole.
And he let his friends down, with promises and hopes that deluded and destroyed him. Throwing his words a- -round, never slowing down to enjoy the beer and bodies.
He bounced around from heart to heart, gathering sympathy like gold coins; hoping that he could, if they really would, stay and cope a little.
And he let them down, like his friends and his parents. He thought a- -bout dying and writing. He thought about his brother and every girl he thought he loved, trying to understand if he could love if he could not love himself.
He bounced around from key to key, writing about nonsense. Or maybe it was important and he minimized it, because that's how he coped; or that's how his father talked about his son's accomplishments. I guess his son would have to ask himself if he ever accomplished anything worth making his dad proud.
And when he went to the ward, Chestnut Ridge, that was three years ago. I guess he's still around, working hard, New Yorker something, something, something. Dad is proud, likes Bojack Horseman and The Walking Dead; all of this stuff is so ******* irrelevant.