Do you remember when I broke my arm,
when we were leaving for our first tour,
and I fell down the stairs with my guitar?
We were driving in your van,
with a band full of my best friends,
and we turned on the radio and we sang
Punk songs.
We brought some beer back to your house,
where I fell asleep on your couch,
with your kitten on my chest, purring loud.
You didn't follow me to bed;
you stayed up with your 30-rack,
and I listened from the bedroom as you were trashed
and singing
Punk songs.
And sometimes I wish that I could go back.