Well, she crept back in the house
|
at half past three
|
shook her head to see him
|
snoring in his sleep
|
"If he really loved me,"
|
she said,
|
"I wouldn't have to be so mean."
|
|
He's a heap of junk that
|
pours from his top drawer
|
He sometimes likes to spread it
|
out around the floor
|
it's evidence of what
|
he was like
|
he likes to remember when
|
|
CHORUS
|
|
Sha-la-la sha-la-la sha-la-la
|
the end is growing near
|
and we're treading water now
|
and holding back our tears
|
and the day is rising
|
wer're singing,
|
sha - la - la - la - la
|
|
In a minute it will all be coming down
|
and they know it now
|
but no one makes a sound
|
it's such a shame to
|
ruin this bright, lazy sunny day
|
|
CHORUS
|
|
My, my. . .
|
the cruelest lies are often told
|
without a word
|
my, my. . .
|
the kindest truths are often spoken,
|
never heard
|
|
she said,
|
"you've been pushing me
|
like I was a sore tooth
|
you can't respect me
|
'cause I've done so much
|
for you."
|
he said, "well, I hate that
|
it's come to this, but baby,
|
I was doing fine
|
how do you think that I
|
survived the other twenty-five
|
before you?"
|
|
CHORUS
|
|
-----------------
|
The Last Polka
|
| Ben Folds Five |
