| February days are good for nothing but split lips
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| A winter spent exhausted but sleepless
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| But I’ve always heard it called a problem
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| When someone does something alone
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| So I’ll just
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| Keep spinning «…Further West»
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| And I’ll get
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| My five hours a night at best
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| At least if I don’t wake up in the morning
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| My head can’t start hurting
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| So here’s to waking up shaking
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| Balled up on the floor
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| Of an iced over winter Lake Superior
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| Raise a flag at half-mast
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| And a half-empty glass
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| In a toast to remembering what it’s like
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| To not have to know she’s sleeping somewhere else tonight
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| It’s quarter past the third double blur on the right
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| And this apartment’s pale, yellow lights
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| Are really bringing out the blue in the bags under my sunken eyes
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| I still can’t shake this fucking cough
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| And I still catch myself way too often
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| Hoping that I only have to miss her
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| Till I finally find my way to sleep
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| Well here’s to waking up shaking
|
| Balled up on the floor
|
| Of an iced over winter Lake Superior
|
| Raise a flag at half-mast
|
| And a half-empty glass
|
| In a toast to remembering what it’s like
|
| To not have to know she’s sleeping somewhere else tonight
|
| Well here’s to waking up shaking
|
| Balled up on the floor
|
| Of an iced over winter Lake Superior
|
| Raise a flag at half-mast
|
| And a half-empty glass
|
| In a toast to remembering what it’s like
|
| To not have to know she’s sleeping somewhere else tonight |