You know we are in trouble, when the heathen starts to pray
When the unruly child starts to stack some jars of clay
When the fashion of tomorrow seems too close to one today
When you say you love me and it's me who doesn't want to stay

You can tell that we are done, when the preacher cries for signs
When the surgeon doubts his practice and a mother leaves her child
When the artist can't play songs he wrote and teachers fails to see their worth
You can tell that we are done, when it's me who wants what's mine

You could count all my mistakes on stars that we can't even see
I can count all yours on less than one hand's fingers and I only have the three
I could drown my sorrows in some *****, but it seems more like your style
So I suppose that I'm the one to realise I'm not worth your while