You ask me to tell you my coming of age, my growing old days, and my misconstrued ways.
I say its in floorboards, under a carpet, under the house, I sometimes call home.
We’d lay there together, weeping and crying, laughing and smiling and cheating and lying.
We’d sit there together, eating and drinking, writing and singing and playing along.
That carpet has seen me, naked in blankets, torn into pieces, and broken in tears
That carpet has watched me, fall into love, and fall out of love, and fall back again.
It knows that you hit me and bit me and lied
It knows that you loved me and knows that you tried
It knows all your drugs, and your secrets well kept
It knows where you spoke and it knows where you wept
I would sometimes sit wasted and burnt on that floor, sweating and freezing and oh so much more.
I would lay on my back looking at Morrisson, trying to remember when all this had begun.
We made love on that carpet, through snowstorms and rain, through sunshine and pain, through the loss and the gain.
We made love on that carpet, in the hopes for the future, don’t rip out the sutures, the edges wont mend.
Always remember, don’t forget to toast, let’s toast on the coast, you’re the host with the most.
Always make sure your blinds are closed tight, don’t let in the cold, but shut out the light.