Can’t help but thinking this is what it feels like to be old
Can’t but staring at the pair of dice I rolled
Can’t but wonder for whom my bell has tolled

I don’t think I’ll do well alone
I’m kind of glad you don’t pick up the phone

Piles of letters are climbing up the door
Can’t find a reason to climb up off this floor
Can’t help but thinking this is what it feels like to be poor

Everything I read’s a palindrome
I’m kind of glad you don’t pick up the phone

But you
Know me
I’ll remain
The clock
Won’t
Slow down
Anyway
And I
Will ride
The bigger hand
Around
Around
Around
And back again

My car’s getting faster, my hands are off the wheel
Can’t help but thinking that there is no point to yield
To any sign that decries what I think is real

I don’t think that I’ll go down that road
I’m kind of glad you won’t pick up the phone