There is no cure, I am sure, for these ten cent blues

I was attached on bended knee
But I declined my leave
But who could blame
A fraction of her being?
With her uncanny styling

And I'm sorry I don't have her face

She chose to dissect me
But I did not agree with her

If I were one among this crowd
Would you call that defeat?

In a way it's making me crazy
In a sense that it's making me stronger
A likely chance, and it's probably proven
In the end we'll all walk away

Shaking hands on the doormat
I salute you,
A stranger and a happy fit



psyched for the Eisley