| I don’t know whether to laugh or cry |
| And I don’t know whether to live or die |
| I kept my love for her locked deep inside |
| It cuts like a knife, she’s out of my life |
| Out of my life, out of my hair |
| Out of my mind, there’s no love in there |
| I move on, move on |
| Dear God, I wasn’t breast fed |
| And most of my conversations with men seem to revolve around music |
| I’m no musician but the pain has been instrumental |
| My sense finally tune the instruments of, of, of |
| Of being lonely, of being lost, of being loved, of being human |
| Man I could use a metaphor but I can’t get beyond this shit |
| I could use someone to talk to |
| But most of my conversations with men seem to revolve around music |
| I am a poet who composes what the world proses |
| And proses what the world composes |
| I am a poet who composes what the world proses |
| And proses what the world composes |
| Damned indecision and cursed pride |
| I kept my love for her locked deep inside |
| And I don’t know what to do |
| To get it through to you |
| Get out of my life tonight |
| Get out of my life |
| Out of my life, out of my hair |
| Out of my mind, 'cause no lovin' fair |
| I move on, move on |
| She had nothing but time on her hands |
| Silver rings, turquoise stones and purple nails |
| I rub my thumb across her palm |
| A featherbed where slept a psalm |
| Yay though I walked, I used to fly, and now we dance |
| I watch my toenails blacken and walk a deadened trance |
| 'Til she woke me with the knife edge of her glance |
| I have the scars to prove the clock strikes with her hands |
| And I don’t know what to do |
| To get it through to you |
| And I don’t know what to do |
| To get it through |
| Out of my life, out of my hair |
| Out of my mind, 'cause no lovin' fair |
| I move on, move on, I move on |
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