keeping up

There's something soothing about a day job that ruins your clothes It's miserable but comforting to know That there's a couch and weed at home waiting for me I'm a savant on the road I'm a fuck up when I'm home I'll still be washing dishes When I'm 40 years old with my kidneys cakes and braces on both my knees Outside every inside joke, with my busted ears ringing God knows I miss being at home This was Mecca before the property value changed Everywhere I love became everything that I hate Now there's no room for broke asses like me I don't want to lose track of my friends but distance is fucked It's not that I don't care I'm just awful at keeping up There's just no room in my head between the scrambled names and worn off piston rings I'm outside every inside joke with my busted ears ringing God knows I miss being at home