Dylan

Dylan gets his shortcuts from his Dad
Always finds a loop

Breaks it off, then goes dancing
Like he never had a care
Like he never had a chance

And winners
Are people no one knows
And people no one likes

Dylan likes to speak broken French
'Cause he says it makes his meager thoughts
Sound like fresh champagne

And he plays guitars for the girls
While they drink coffee

And he drives them home
While their boyfriends are at work

And he's twice as old as he feels
And he's not as good as he wants to be
At anything

Got a front porch where the shadows go to sit
Even when the sun's not there

Got an old couch
And an empty fridge
And a record collection
That ain't worth shit

Got a sad song that he never wrote down
And now it's a ghost of tune

He broke apart
Then he broke up the pieces
And put them back all wrong

Dylan wants to be a family man someday
Just like his father was

Have barbecues in the backyard
And dispense advice about love and crayons

Got a job fixing vintage cars
But the job won't last

Because all the jobs are running out of town fast
And the past has the longest legs
So how can you outrun it?

And he's sick of telling people
He's working on something
When he's working on shit

Working on getting the rent paid
Working on getting his bike fixed
Working on getting his shit together

But you can't say that
And you can't complain

'Cause someone's got it worse
'Cause you live in America

Where the person in line behind you
Is way worse off
Than you'll ever be

Dylan sees the sad song
Float by his peripheral vision

Dylan's whole life
Goes by
In peripheral vision

So he catches glances of it
From time to time

But it's always
Out of reach

So he speaks his French
And he thinks about shit
And he fixes cars
That nobody drives anymore

But at least he still has
His front porch

And the shadows there are enough
To cover him up