You say it makes you nervous when I stand up
I’m always moving, shifting, changing,
Trying for a better fit in a bitter cup.
I say I understand that my smoke makes you cough,
Then you sigh, moan, roll your eyes,
Tell me you’re more comfortable with the lights off.
The volume of the music grows in the night,
You like the fiddles, guitars, banjos,
But you hate that my sheets are white.
It wasn’t very long ago or far away it seems,
Those moments in the sun, moon, stars,
Now they begin to fade like near-forgotten dreams.
