I sat outside my front window...this story's going somewhere:
"He's well hung," and I am hanging up.
Well there's a song on the radio that says:
"Let's get this party started."
So let's get this party started.
What you do on your own time's just fine.
My imagination's much worse, I just never want to know.
And what meant the world had folded
like legs and fingers holding onto what escapes me;
what he has: a better kiss that never lasts.
You said, between your smiles and regrets: "Don't say it's over."
Dead and gone.
The calm before the storm set it off, and the sun burnt out tonight.
A reception less than warm set it off. The sun burnt out tonight.
This is me standing in the arch of the door hating
that look that's on your face that says
there's another fool like me.
There's one born every minute.
What you do on your own time's just fine.
My imagination's much worse, I just never want to know.
What meant the world imploded, inflated then demoted all my oxygen
to product gas and suffocated my last chance.
