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Well, it's late at night. |
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There's nobody around. |
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Just the sounds of the cars |
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Upon the asphalt ground. |
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It's the waiting time, |
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When the hours grow still. |
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I gaze on through the glass |
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Inside my windowsill. |
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Though I know that you must be |
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Somewhere in this world, |
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In this place where, at birth, |
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You and I were both hurled, |
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To think that we once were relating |
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Is a thing that has almost grown foreign to me. |
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It's a bad sight, |
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Such a terrible waste, |
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To spend your time talking |
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In such bad taste. |
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It's the same old line, |
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Though it's not you I blame. |
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It's your teachers and television |
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That you put to shame. |
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The night's lasting longer |
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Because I've filled my head |
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With the things I could have done |
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And the words I could have said. |
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But, in truth, I was only spectating |
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And that's a permanent part of reality. |
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So many rude lines, |
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So many petty crimes |
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And you don't feel a need |
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To apologize. |
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Tonight is the time |
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That you stick in my mind, |
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But from now on I won't become |
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Vandalized. |
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Now the room's started filling |
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With the dawn's early light |
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And the end has arrived |
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Of this long night. |
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I turn off the television |
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And I hit the bed |
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While your shade is still haunting |
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My ever-vulnerable head. |
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And there's no use |
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In trying to compromise |
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When the kindest things we say |
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But it's time I should quit my complaining |
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And behave with a little more dignity. |
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So many rude lines, |
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So many petty crimes |
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And you don't feel a need |
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To apologize. |
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Tonight is the time |
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That you stick in my mind, |
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But from now on I won't become |
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Vandalized. |
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written by Bill Foreman |
