You and I don't treat each other the way we did a month ago-Could it be that someone's in your head?Looking into your eyes, I can tell you don't see paradise anymore.You usually call me baby and always talkin bout how I'm yo special lady.Lately Though - you haven't.You've been messing around. And the way you say you love me. It now sounds shaky.I know there's three of us.So hold me one last time- because I'm letting you go.
Fire I wasAnd gasoline you were-By myself I was already destruction,With you added, I was chaos.The warning I was told, I should have heeded- a little taste is that I desired. A taste I received, along with- too much mystery.Games were here and there. Chases that kept me in left me out of breath. Desperate was I to keep you in.Fire and gasoline. Oh the trouble you could bring. Baby, you were supposed to be energy, yet you ruined me.
Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
The sudden death of Eugene CarmanPut me in line to be promoted to fifty dollars a month,And I told my wife and children that night.But it didn’t come, and so I thoughtOld Rhodes suspected me of stealingThe blankets I took and sold on the sideFor money to pay a doctor’s bill for my little girl.Then like a bolt old Rhodes accused me,And promised me mercy for my family’s sakeIf I confessed, and so I confessed,And begged him to keep it out of the papers,And I asked the editors, too.That night at home the constable took meAnd every paper, except the Clarion,Wrote me up as a thiefBecause old Rhodes was an advertiser
How does it happen, tell me,That I who was most erudite of lawyers,Who knew Blackstone and CokeAlmost by heart, who made the greatest speechThe court-house ever heard, and wroteA brief that won the praise of Justice BreeseHow does it happen, tell me,That I lie here unmarked, forgotten,While Chase Henry, the town drunkard,Has a marble block, topped by an urnWherein Nature, in a mood ironical,Has sown a flowering weed?