| Put your tears back into your eyes |
| Adjust your hair |
| I am in no mood for theatrics |
| Or fake despair |
| It almost makes me hunger |
| For symbols, signs, and semaphore. |
| Subtle shades of metaphor too ingenious to ignore. |
| Instead of that you sit there and cry, |
| You moan, you lie. |
| You crumple like an old piece of tinfoil |
| You claim you’ll die. |
| What the hell possessed me to ever catch a date with you? |
| I should have known that it was wrong |
| To trust the judgment of my schlong. |
| Put your tears back (your tears back), yeah. |
| I hate the way you drool when you talk |
| I hate your clothes. |
| Moses knows his roses and I know |
| It’s time to go. |
| Thirty-Something episodes, |
| Forced amusement at your joes. |
| Daisy chains and yogurt stains |
| Sneaking under windowpanes. |
| You think I’m not aware of your script |
| So well rehearsed |
| The close-up camera follows your lipstick |
| Back in your purse. |
| If you were better at it |
| Then maybe we could still be friends, |
| Write and talk and keep in touch |
| As it is I hate your guts! |
| Put your tears back (your tears back) yeah. |