Remember when
we'd sit around and on the fire
and you'd get your guitar out to sing?
We'd sing CCR and Jersey Giant.
Don't look back in anger
or anything by Brie Springsteen.
Back when old Lena would throw her own
hands up with her face framed by the fire.
And it got so late with Dave,
hits from a joint mistake,
shooting stars through telephone
wire.
Now I've grown partial to having a
heart full of memories I cannot bear.
The girls in summer clothes and Lord knows
the sauce and her long dark river washed hair.
Now I think I might pack a bag in the night,
find me some small town out west.
Start over,
find closure and just say I'm sorry to
that sweet girl who tore off that dress.
The way the moon was cresting over green
pines resting next to that coal spine I wrote.
It made me think of you,
the dirt house in Santa Fe and all of the good times I stole.
Remember when Sean was drunk walking the Kerouac?
Remember when Steve quit the band?
I don't know nothing but if I knew something
I'd know that I've helped all I can.
I think it's about time that I said you never
look more needy or desperate and I've never
been more worried about the state of the world,
angry girl.
The time just stays passing,
I think of my dad when the army and navy games on.
And every night I wonder if he's proud of the
man who threw a fist that late night in his lawn.
I don't like being famous,
they claim you then paint you,
someone that she
never been.
And I'm pissed at my mama,
can't see me singing for this crowd out in deep Michigan.
And I'll leave you with something,
don't leave with nothing,
be safe on your long drive home.
There ain't nothing in this poor man's
apartment apart from being alone.
And I wish you were around this time
of year every time they drop that ball.
I'm drinking in the parking lot,
while the fire disappears over Times Square and Webster Hall.