The rain on the sill has started dripping again
and you are fast asleep by ten
and now I am alone in a world of disgrace
to search for my poor mother's face in it all.
And now I think:
Six months ago I'd have climbed down his stairs
to find him in his underwear.
And I'd have climbed in his bed with blankets over our heads
to dream of making that honey bread that we'd make.
Ain't that how it always seems to go?
How it goes.
How it goes.
No Mr., Mrs., Ma'am or Sir,
with us those words just never worked
and now we aren't on speaking terms.
No favors slid beneath the table
not even if we're counting able;
just you and me in our short sleeves
but you cut yours off so I guess that makes it a tanktop
and side by side's where we decided that.
Ain't that how it always seems to go?
When something good comes, it goes.
Ain't that how it always seems to go?
How it goes.
How it goes.