it's the end of the world as we know it
i still think high enough of me to call myself an artist
and all the people that we know
still drag their feet down city streets that never seem to show
all the cracks in the foundations
of the deals they've been making with themselves
saying "i'll try to be good"
but in this town, on this night, who really could?
we're smoking 27s right outside some shady bar
where the bouncer knows your name
and hasn't asked to see your card
since he recognized you from back in high school
when you were both from someplace else
but here you are
it's the end of my life as i've built it
back to harpswell, not too drunk to drive,
but just enough to prove that i am not the person you should want
the grace that you possess is something i can only dream of
so if you can promise to be good
i said if you can just promise to be good
if you can just promise to be good
i'll promise not to say those things that i rather would
we're smoking 27s on the walk back to your car
and i see you staring through me
but i'm standing right in front of you
i don't care who strikes first
i don't care who's got it worse
i'm still standing
(barely conscious, but i'm standing)
though the cracks in my foundations start to show
say, when it rains, will i have someplace to go?