| Call you up on the telephone, no-one answer
|
| Call again, it rings, I call again
|
| I think of stopping by or stopping in
|
| But never leave home
|
| Tripping back and forth between the bar and home
|
| Looking back and forth at what I done
|
| Collected bottle caps and soggy scraps of high life label peelings
|
| Running tabs, a running up and down the walls again
|
| Climbing up the slang on stalls again
|
| Somethin' 'bout the better times tonight and baby Jesus
|
| Your letters are the ladder I climb rung by rung
|
| To claw my way up to the gates of heaven
|
| The sketches and scratches you draw drunk and alone
|
| Gives me the map that I’ll follow back home
|
| Back home, follow back home, back home
|
| Follow back home, back home
|
| Send me home, take me home
|
| I gotta get, I gotta go
|
| Cut me up, cut me off, kick me
|
| I’m a busy man, I got a schedule to keep
|
| Where’s my data, where’s my gun, where’s my hat
|
| I’m madder than a… where’s my phone, where’s my fax
|
| Can’t look past you’re hacking at the forest but you never hit a tree
|
| Tell me one more time, tell me once more, promise that I’ll listen
|
| But I can’t be promis-isn' I’ll be baking cakes
|
| Or building you no castles by the sea
|
| Good little lady you driving me crazy
|
| Why don’t you swing my way and find your seat
|
| Your lipstick is lazy, your eyes are all hazy
|
| But there’s somethin' behind the whiskey whispers you speak
|
| That rocks me to sleep
|
| There must be something terribly wrong with me
|
| Sometimes I feel like I haven’t learned anything
|
| Good little lady you driving me crazy
|
| Why don’t you swing my way and find your seat
|
| Your lipstick is lazy, your eyes are all hazy
|
| But there’s somethin' behind the whiskey whispers you speak
|
| That rocks me to sleep |