Written by David W. Robinson in March of 2014.
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I caught my first real ride to your fields of plenty
In an import two-door compact car.
You've got your name engraved in the hearts of many;
I bet they all wonder where you are.
'Cause you split like a midnight shooting star,
Leaving all of the back home boys at the bar.
You walked out that door.
I couldn't take anymore.
You took me way too far.
Oh, look at the mess you got me in.
Oh, look at this mess.
I had my best suit pressed for that Sunday's service.
I had a little memorial in mind,
And I'll confess that dress had me stressed and nervous.
It fit like the label on a bottle of wine.
You moved like a metronome in time,
And you licked your lips and you rehearsed your lines.
You put it in my head
That I'd be better off dead
If you weren't gonna be mine.
Oh, look at the mess you got me in.
Oh, you were running that game, and I let you win.
Did I slip when I fell when I knew that you wouldn't?
That I love you so when I shouldn't?
Oh, look at this mess.
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