Well I been downhearted baby, ever since the day we met. So I hid behind all those old songs, baby how blue can you get...
And the smoke filled my lungs like I was dying, And the summer sunset kissed my fingertips.
So someone grab my wrists and pull me out of this, Take my money, take my wallet, take my shoes. Get a good, good hold of me and pull on the count of three, Just do whatever you've gotta do... Do what you gotta do.
And it's cold outside on a Monday. Maybe that's the weather's sympathy. We hate the traffic and the tax forms, and our day jobs... What ungrateful men are we.
What, then, do I do with all these feelings, All the anger, all the there, but Grace, go I.