Текст: Frank Turner. Sleep Is For The Week. Wisdom Teeth.

It?s been eighteen months since I kissed you once,
So just saying ?hi? just isn?t going to fly,
But if you give me a clue and a minute or two,
Then I might remember your name.
And I hate to insist that I was really that pissed,
But to tell the truth, in my flush of youth,
I would drown my sight until faces and nights seemed the same.
And a nervous shrug and an awkward hug
Won?t get me out of the hole that I?ve dug,
So I slip the noose with a poor excuse
And talk to someone, anyone else.
And I sit with my friends and I try to pretend
That I never did that sort of thing again,
But I?m lying to myself.

And suddenly it?s as clear as clear could be:
I?m not quite the perfect man that I hoped I?d be.
And though I always tried to live an honest life,
To tell my truth I?ve told my share of lies.

I remember you, of course I do,
But I don?t recall how many times we?ve been through
This little game, that always ends the same,
With you sad and me far away.
And every time I repeat the line
That the fault?s not mine and I wasn?t unkind.
But the worst part is that I?ve got nothing else to say.

And all the pretty little pictures of faith and firm devotion
That I painted as a child,
Well they have fallen by the wayside, along with all my puppy-fat,
But my days have taught me this:
That every day I spend pretending that I always choose the right path
Is a day that I choose the wrong.

Oh yes my wisdom teeth have been giving me grief ?
They woke me up to find that I?m exactly the kind of
Guy I said that I?d rather be dead than be
In the days before I got laid.