Frank Turner

Would you pick your clothes up, put your clothes on,
Pack your things and go?
I’m tired of sinking this low.
Awkward semi-naked coffee conversations fade
Quicker than mistakes that were made.
Mornings when I’m coming down, being driven round the bend,
Make for days when I’m losing my friends
For all the little things that I have done and cannot make amends.
Don’t you ever kind of wish that the world would just stop?
That the band would pack up and the curtain would drop?
I’ve been stuck inside the same old nights, the same old days off,
And I need you now because I can’t get out of this.
Clean your mirrors, roll your notes out,
Put your cards away.
That’s a game that I don’t want to play anymore.
My head is sore, my throat is raw, and what’s more
I’m fifty pounds down to feel empty and poor,
Remembering the things that I believed when I was sober and sure.