She keeps me waiting in the morning
while she's deciding what to wear.
And come the evening, there's no warning.
Now I'm not to know why she isn't there.
No time to tell her all the reasons
why I always disappear.
And in those desperate situations,
I just fade away still she never cares.
But Glorophilia says,
she says, it's just another Sunday afternoon.
Uh-huh.
And Glorophilia says,
she says,
there ain't no point in loving you,
not home.
She keeps me wrapped around her finger.
So
I don't know what to do.
And using my imagination, she could set me free.
I bet she's dying too.
And sipping wine around the table,
her expenses plain to see.
Entertaining for a living,
she's got everything that she doesn't need.
And Glorophilia says,
she says, it's just
another Sunday afternoon.
Uh-huh.
And Glorophilia says,
she says, there ain't no point in loving you,
not home.
I can't sleep at night.
I'm all strung out.
Things just ain't right.
I really need to know.
But Glorophilia says,
she says, it's just another Sunday afternoon.
Uh-huh.
And Glorophilia says,
she says,
there ain't no point in loving you, not home.
Glorophilia says,
she says, it's just another Sunday afternoon.
Uh-huh.
And Glorophilia says,
she says,
there ain't no point in loving you,
not home.