My so-called friends
|
Where are they now?
|
I guess a love that bends
|
Isn't worth much anyhow
|
The come and go
|
They talk their shit
|
And when I really need to know
|
All I get is spit in my eye
|
But the less I know,
|
The better, the faster I go, jet-setter
|
I chase around the world
|
But I never get the girl
|
|
But I don't let it bother me
|
I cut out any part of me
|
That's been bruised, and refused, and misused or confused
|
Oh, some people wanna know
|
All about my history
|
And no one seems to care
|
That none of it's noteworthy
|
But I talked so much, as it were
|
That I made the local news:
|
"The boy has got the magic touch
|
And he can't ever lose"
|
My present situation
|
Is no longer inspiration
|
My precious generation
|
Is killing their time
|
And behind their backs
|
I'm slipping through the cracks
|
And it doesn't really matter if
|
You won't have any part of this
|
My scheme I've devised
|
Where my team is disguised
|
And we seem like ordinary guys
|
But surprised
|
I'm hardly phased anymore
|
By your classless ways
|
It takes more than that to amaze me
|
These days I'm so messed-up
|
Never know what time it is
|
Jet lag's the price to pay to play show biz, kid
|
And I stayed up late
|
The night before
|
I slept the whole way on the plane
|
And now my neck is sore
|
|
(C'mon now)
|
Da da da da da da, ahh...
|
|
-----------------
|
Jetlag
|
| Brendan Benson |
