This morning the shame, drives a pain in my chest, like a knife
And an ashtray parades, the lipsticked remains, of last night
But the stale smell of cigarettes, and the scratches of glass on the table
Don’t make me feel as guilty, as the scratches on me, or the clothes strewn on that empty cradle
This scene is a picture, a canvas of lies, that I painted
The bleak house of my mind, has nowhere to hide, that’s still vacant
So I crawl out of bed, for a coffee and beer, or just beer
And the smell of cheap perfume, it stabs at my conscience, and reminds me of why you’re not here
