|
Put your tears back into your eyes |
|
Adjust your hair |
|
I am in no mood for theatrics |
|
Or fake despair |
|
It almost makes me hunger |
|
For symbols, signs, and semaphore. |
|
Subtle shades of metaphor too ingenious to ignore. |
|
Instead of that you sit there and cry, |
|
You moan, you lie. |
|
You crumple like an old piece of tinfoil |
|
You claim you'll die. |
|
What the hell possessed me to ever catch a date with you? |
|
I should have known that it was wrong |
|
To trust the judgment of my schlong. |
|
Put your tears back (your tears back), yeah. |
|
I hate the way you drool when you talk |
|
I hate your clothes. |
|
Moses knows his roses and I know |
|
It's time to go. |
|
Thirty-Something episodes, |
|
Forced amusement at your joes. |
|
Daisy chains and yogurt stains |
|
Sneaking under windowpanes. |
|
You think I'm not aware of your script |
|
So well rehearsed |
|
The close-up camera follows your lipstick |
|
Back in your purse. |
|
If you were better at it |
|
Then maybe we could still be friends, |
|
Write and talk and keep in touch |
|
As it is I hate your guts! |
|
Put your tears back (your tears back) yeah. |
