In a motel room in Colorado Springs,
We learned what impatience brings
To women who fool around.
That summer was a strung-out mess,
And you swore to God you had the perfect fix,
And a plan to get us out.You said, "Don't you turn around.
Leave your strings at the door,
And just walk out."I sat in the living room
And watched your girlfriend pack her things
To move away from you.
Our record: Buffy Sainte-Marie,
And we held hands and cried
'Til we couldn't see anything.You said, "Don't you turn around.
You wouldn't like what you found here anyhow."So I took a red-eye from the Bay,
Watched you watch the taxi pull away
From Mission Street.
The next time we would meet
Would be a train wreck of nerves and sexless sleep.
Mistakes made, empty hymns.I said, "Don't you make a sound.
Nothing's careful in desire,
Especially now."There were no accidents;
We asked for this.
But the South is not out West.
There's nothing gentle about
Our stomachs full of gin.
We are alive, and we have no regrets.In a farmhouse in the Piedmont Hills,
We learned what impatience wills
To women who fool around.
If thievery has a voice to to sing
It's the choice and sound of moving hands
Over social wedding rings.I said, "Don't you turn around.
Leave your strings at the door,
And just walk out."