If you don't want to sleep next to me anymore, please leave my home.
Perhaps it's as much yers as it is mine, but you are the one who has fallen out of love.
I stare out the window at that empty trail of weak lights...
the moon hanging somewhere over a pile of paper and glass.
And the sheets on our bed are filled with confetti and dirt.
I've asked you so many times to wipe yer feet off before you get in.
and when you leave all ill be left with is a pile of dust only aggravating me further.
and there'll be no one to say bless you
and there'll be no one to water the plants
and there'll be no one to take out the dead mice
and there'll be no one to help me to make the bed...
but i know myself and will not bother.
I can just lay there and think about shooting up the place...
my confetti six shooter on one side, my alligator water gun on the other.
Shooting and spitting and crying with a soundtrack of nothing but you walking out silent.
And ill lay on the bed, some horrible pile of hair and salt water, staring up at that nasty sun shining its shit grin on that pile of paper and glass...
I'll forever want you there pressed between me and confetti and the window...
I'll forever be there pressed against that wooden pole and dirt and you...
I'll forever be there staring out at the moon through the glass pane by that wilting garden,
and you'll be with some other girl wiping yer feet off before getting into bed.
