You and I built a house.
You and I built a shed.
The basement's dry and the family room is dead.
You and I made the most.
You and I made the bed.
You and I slept outside instead.
You and I ring around.
You and I packed the ground
of ashes, and we all fall down.

Will it crumble now?
And it will because
inherent is, inherent does.

Baby hurt in my head.
Maybe heard it in my bed
meaningless and ever spoon-fed.
But I thought of it just today,
just how I thought I heard you say
I'm broken but you'll love me anyway.

Do you remember when I showed up at midnight?
I couldn't go home again, inside-out with plight.
I pulled my car and light!
Oh God, I would not die tonight.

A pocket full of loose change,
and a dozen lives to rearrange
all so inconvenient and strange.