Ain't Worth the Whiskey (ballad in two persons)

{Every day I get home from all the places I've got to go,
I eat something from a can that isn't very good and I
sit and wait right next to the telephone opening your little box -
the one with the dancer inside that plays that tune
everybody's heard but nobody knows the name of.}

<Sippin' On Fire out of a mason jar
trying to figure out this puzzle called my marriage.
Playin' the jukebox doesn't really help
stuck on J5 - God that song spins my head .>

{After a while, when the sun starts to set,
after the children are called back home from playing
in the street when we used to sit on the floor
with our backs against the wall reading novels
and collected poetry, reading song lyrics and recipes -
anything that could distract us from that reality,}

<I'd walk on hot coals for her, not enough;
she wants me to walk on water
but all I do is sink deeper every step I take
no one's throwing me anything but a bottle.
I keep looking at my phone, thinking
about how I made our ring tone
just like her music box. Dead silent now.>

{I hear the words you begged me to repeat
night after night coming to life again, sailing
across a melody everybody's heard but nobody
knows the name of and I pull another bottle
of whiskey from the shelf. I glance at the telephone
before opening it, hoping to hear it ring -
even if the voice on the other end has bad news
it's still better than this, because you can't leave me again.}

<I wanted to challenge the world and
show her I can beat the game
she said take out the garbage on my way.
"Set me down another jar, 'keep!"
This fires too cold, it doesn't burn
my memories away like it should -
that damn song, how many quarters
did I put in the friggin' machine?
Guess by now she knows how
she'll live without me.>

{The little dancer spins on her track and the song
sings itself over and over again, bringing memories
and worn out story books to life. Little girls
aren't supposed to push their big, strong daddies away
so soon. They aren't supposed to follow so closely
in their "rotten" mother's footsteps, but you -
you always were a fiery little thing. I should have
known better than to treat you that way.}

<Playing with my telephone,
thought I'd call her up, tell her
"come on down grab a drink
be like old times, whatcha say?"
No way, last time I did that:
"Get your sorry butt back home;
dinners getting cold."
Bet that dinner's cold by now!>

{You know, I've never been one to drink,
I've never been proud of the things I've done,
but missin' you just ain't worth the whiskey
or any of the pain that comes to life with it.}

<I'm still sippin' on fire out of a mason jar. >