And a thimble full of rain is all I found when I came see my baby
You might think this would collapse the stawhouse of my soul.
But your bad vibes can huff and puff but they won’t blow my card house down.

And a shotglass with three fingers of dust matre’d’s my selves
Mother Hubbarding my salad shopping days
I made a bad turn, at the wrong time, on march fifteen
Hey, why are you all staring at me?

As I stylishly slide my way to the bottom of a Bell’s
I can feel the cruel weight of your merciless eyes
Pressing my wrinkled suit into business fashion

It’s a small note that I wrote, you’ll find on your pillow
A little missive hastily written with my heart collared sleeve
Baby, you’re not the first and I’m not the last, but somehow, 
Somewhere, the train whistles are a little fainter now.
# copyright Joe Johnston