Couch surfing will break your back
And there’s not one night
In ten lonely years
That she’s gone to sleep
In her bed upstairs
It’s piled high with clothes
That no longer fit
Old christmas gifts
With tags still affixed
She sleeps on the couch
And she dreams like a slave
Dreams of her mortgage
It’s jaws clamped round her vertebrae
She’s hollow
She’s dying
She’s menopause-ing away
Hey there, good looking
What’s that microwave got cooking
For you and me tonight?
‘Cause it seems like
You just might
Stick your salt and pepper head inside
That you might scream
That you might
Die just like Sylvia
Die as a slave
Die a single mother
A bleak divorcee
Dig under her affluence and this is what you’ll find:
Five beds, four baths, three kids, do the math
Just debt, regret, empty nest, a broken back
I was not worth throwing away all of your dreams