You can bash your head against a wall for years,
The wall is not impressed.
Or you can take a giant step away only to discover,
Your wound's already dressed.
It's not hard to see a beautiful girl,
And imagine the life that you could have with her.
But you can't bend time, nor bind it up with twine.
You can try, try, you'll never read her mind.
Which is fine, fine,
'Cause she cannot read yours.
You treat me worse than you treat any stranger.
For my part, I say thanks.
I am like a cobblestone street,
And you,
you're like 50 Sherman tanks.
Roll right over me,
Reduce me to rubble.
I am Monsieur Bovary,
and you are Madame Trouble.
So much that what we so grandly call love,
is simply in our heads.
How many doors slammed closed,
And stepped-on toes,
And songs composed,
And poems and prose,
About things we've heard in words nobody said.
The show must not, the show must not,
The show must not go on.
The show must not, the show must not,
The show must not go on.
The show must not, the show must not,
The show must not go on.
Not go on. Not go on.
You can bash your head against a wall forever,
The wall will never change.
But if you start to like the bloody bruises,
The wall cannot be blamed.
I try to make it seem like I'm over you.
The blindest man alive can see: It simply isn't true.
Love only lasts as long as it lasts,
Goes as far as it goes,
and it goes pretty goddamn fast.
Sometimes love is fun.
Sometimes burdensome.
Sometimes hard up.
Sometimes hard won.
But you only miss it if it's gone.
The show must not, the show must not,
The show must not go on
The show must not, the show must not,
The show must not go on.
The show must not, the show must not,
The show must not go on.
Not go on. Not go on.