You drink the bottle dry, you throw it hard, it barely misses him
You blame the drink, the drugs, your wife, your job, your kids
But it's all your fault

I'm sorry I missed your call, the truth is that I don't miss you at all
I'll take the knife from my back and I'll show you all
That I'm fucking off, I'm going home

I know you drove me insane
I swear I can't take this pain
You said things will get better
I can't see it happening, this year