I’ve never seen so much distinction between the natural colored sky,
and all the secret trouble in every striking hazel eye.
Never opened my conceptions to all the hateful bleeding blows,
never an open mind ‘cause I shut it and that’s how this story goes.

You live in your place, I live in mine,
I used to live there too till I lost my mind.
And then the shit hit the fan and ended up on the floor,
it was too much to bear so I don’t live there anymore.

But you’re tired, you’re patient but you’re tired,
and when that patience runs out
there’s no telling what’s gonna slip out.
All the shit you thought I was too good or too soft to hear,
and then I’ll sit there and listen and close my tired eyes and fall asleep with a thousand guilty scenes played over ten-thousand times.

I don’t know what you’re talking about,
ain’t no patron saint in this town.
One day he got tired of no one listening,
now he just sits at home and drinks beers on the couch.

You say I’m there to take his place,
I smile politely and ask would you look at my face:
When I sigh these days I sigh deeper, and these smiles just aren’t the same,
and rarely will I let out laughter that isn’t laced with smoke and shame.
So I say to you dear listener, to all those passing by,
will you be there with me to carry the torch when that patron saint finally kicks the bucket and dies?