I am the man on stage slurring your favourite songs.
Making up a few of the words as I go along.
Taking the edge off of me
Is a necessity when I’m singing these words that I no longer mean.
I am not a poet, I’m a broken heart
And though you didn’t dispute it, I don’t really play the part.
I am not dishonest, I’m a lost detail
Leaving out the good words to hide my trail.
The bearer of bad news is talking to the breeze
Floating forth the message
Hiding in the trees
The weary voice inside you is darker in the night
The healing hand
The morning light
While you’re out wasting time with the right guy
With the right guy
In the middle of the morn
Upon your words
But still in my slow beating heart
I’m not ashamed
Oh maybe I
In the rising morning light
Should be blamed
And so it seems
I will see you once again, in my dreams
It’s sort of strange
You only haunt me when I’m trying to leave you behind