Small Hands -

Life and living, just ain’t the same

Call me a cynic or call me insane

I’ll be waiting for you to come home

Waiting by the station, all alone

Am I not what you expected

Am I not what you need

Am I a man who does not fit your needs

Are my hands too small for your dirty deeds

Jesus christ you don’t look so well

I never seen you look so frail

I know I said I was yours for forever

But drinking all this whiskey doesn’t make it any better

But I’ll be waiting now, I’ll be waiting for forever

I’ll be sitting down, drinking loud and hard

Staring at my wrists, wondering if they bend

Hearing about men, men who share my name

Write on your arm, just how it feels

To grow a year older, to reveal

The marks on your neck, and the sadness in your eyes

Shaking knees when you finally arrive

A glowing orange hand with nineteen fingers

One for each of your years

Rested on my neck and dug into my back

Blinded both my eyes and won’t come back