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Off Again
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Hank May
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1
i left the tall, white hospital without waving goodbye
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it was the one that i was born in
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and it is where i will die
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and my eyes went blind before they even saw the floor
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and my father's closing yet another open back door
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i left my dying mother in a waiting room
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now i'm deploying my men
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and i'm raising a glass
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for pedaling tricycles (through)
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scattering tylenol
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elevated eye lids (while)
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burying little kids
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and now you're lying on the living room floor
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with one hand on your chest and another against the door
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and if the sound of traffic keeps you safe at night
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what is it doing now?
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your parents aren't always right
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i thought a lot last night under a spit-stained comforter
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about lying and deciding which road deserves to be died on
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and i came to the decision that i just have to stop listening
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and i want my ashes on a freeway between san fransisco and los angeles
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i left the cafeteria with a noisy sigh
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one that closes my eyes and makes room for my all my lies:
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"i never thought i'd see so you happy
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and your smile makes me a little bit angry"
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it's been a long time
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since the ceiling
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at the top of my mind fell through
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you're the last thing
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i could say
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to the officious funeral survey
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they still tell me
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how to behave
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but it's sunday
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and my window won't display
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concrete evidence
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that everything
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is and always will be okay
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and i might have to go to sleep
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without brushing my teeth
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without a mattress under me
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without pity or humility
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i know what i want in my life
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and i know that it's not written on pages of textbooks
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or printed on the sides of city buses
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or left at my door every single morning
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i've heard the squeaking of shopping carts late at night
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below my window where the concrete never seems to die
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and i'll lie and i'll lie and i will lie
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just to bother you, old faithful de ja vous
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and i'll spit up your sympathy into some kitchen sink
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and i'll bury myself and i'll breath what i think
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i won't believe you if you stand with your finger pointed at the sky
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and i won't miss you, or ever think of you for the rest of my life
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i was sweating with creatures underneath my skin
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i was spitting them out just to breathe them back in
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and they dont bother me so much anymore
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yeah i'm used to it
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i don't need help from the shelves of a convienient store
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you know there's something to be said
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to all the living and the dead
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whether you're sleeping on couches
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on the side of the street
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or maybe rotting away
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un der neath
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but everything that's insane
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will become mundane
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now i'm lying dead under a tree
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with a letter at my feet
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and the sun sinking into me
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though i didn't mind the heat
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now there aren't any colors here
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no, there aren't any colors here
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