| With my toes dangling into the sea
|
| Into a fog, into a lonely drink
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| Don’t lift me up
|
| I’m a wreck, I know
|
| Still, I’ve got miles to walk from the cape along the coast
|
| And we’ll play helicopter in the sand
|
| And bite our thumbs at the acquaintances
|
| And make it known we’re on par for the evening
|
| And take the butcher’s knife through my words again
|
| Then in walk the mannered men
|
| With their smokescreen yes
|
| And the sequined girls
|
| With their skirts hemmed high
|
| And you will know from this
|
| That it’s all to start
|
| Our glasses clink
|
| And our plastic swords stab our olive hearts
|
| All night like a friendly ghost
|
| We haunt the ins and outs of this house of our gracious host
|
| And give thanks, but not much helps
|
| And so here is where we give the toast:
|
| Cheers to the wives of the drunks
|
| Cheers to the husbands that tag along for good luck
|
| Cheers to the miles it took to get here
|
| Cheers to the the nerve it takes to forget who we are
|
| Then in walk the mannered men
|
| With their smokescreen yes
|
| And the sequined girls
|
| With their skirts hemmed high
|
| And you will know from this
|
| That it’s all to start
|
| Our glasses clink
|
| And our plastic swords stab our olive hearts |