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.