Saw you standing in the hallway,
red plastic cup, and one of them big long cigarettes.
You asked me if I could play you some Dylan.
I said "Dylan who?" and you told me to kiss your ass.
I apologized, but you could tell I didn't mean it
by the way I rolled my eyes.
Then you said it wasn't me it was you,
somehow I knew you were gonna tell me why.
Stuff was flying out of the window,
falling and breaking on the pavement underneath.
He's screaming at you, red faced and fuming.
He'd come home early, parked his car way up the street.
You had your stockings in your hand, panties in your purse.
It was 10 AM and all the neighbors heard
him calling you a whore and a tramp.
You just stood there while your heels sank into the warm wet ground.
He got a lawyer, you've got a bottle.
He got the children and you moved in with your mama.
She fixes breakfast and lets you use her car.
She don't care how late you call to tell her where you are.
Ya'll still fight and she still nags you some.
but somehow it's different now than when you were young.
It's your own damn fault you been through hell.
for one reason or another, seems like she kinda blames herself.