Rusty pile of iron things.
My hat hair falling in my face.
Another missed phone call.
I can almost hear your voice so guttural.
The room feels small.
And in the morning I know you'll call
and say, "Honey isn't it a little early
to be drinking wine?"
"These days I do all I can to pass the time".
So with every broken bottle
and with every mistake I will make
I'll leave a million broken hearts here in my wake.