Saturday, empty room, filled with people. It don't mean a thing to. You and I, holding hands. Nobody knows, nobody understands. I don't care for sunlight.
Sugar. Sugar, butter, flour. Sometimes I still see her. My mother the dreamer. She'd say, "Nothing's impossible child". A dream needs believing. To taste like the real thing.
It's not simple to say. most days I don't recognize me.. These shoes and this apron. this place and its patrons. have taken more than I gave 'em.. It's not easy to know.
This one's for the lonely child. Brokenhearted, running wild. This was written for the one to blame. One who believe they are the cause of chaos and everything.