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I pushed it hard, |
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that goddamn wrecking ball, |
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and I waited for the weight to swing around but it never did. |
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And the crows they fell |
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around my eyes and still |
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no sign of that ball and chain. |
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I pushed it hard, |
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that goddamn wrecking ball. |
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What kind of pendulum never comes back home? |
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You start to miss it some. |
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The way you miss the rain, |
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the way you miss the fighting when the war is won... |
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But what I miss the most is knowing just exactly where it hurts, |
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is knowing just exactly what is wrong. |
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And what I want, and what I want... |
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I miss the ghost trees, |
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the weary midnight drives, |
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the taste of loneliness in the air beyond the towns. |
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I miss the resonance of those trigger words, |
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that crazy one track mind. |
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Sometimes I miss the cold... |
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But what I miss the most is knowing just exactly where it hurts, |
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is knowing just exactly what is wrong. |
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And what I want, and what I want... |
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I'm remembering the sunlight coming down in shades of blue, |
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the sorrow of the aftermath tightening the noose. |
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I'm thinking of the night that all the lights went out, |
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and how I learned to see in the dark, in the dark, in the dark... |
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I pushed it hard, that goddamn wrecking ball. |
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What kind of pendulum never comes back home? |
