At Night She Comes Home Lyrics

My lover"s a poet, a marvelous poet,
A very fine poet is she.
But all day she makes money, not quite enough money,
And at night she's too tired to think clearly enough
To put words on a page.
So her pen sits, unused and unwanted.
Her book has been missing since May.
And here dreams sit in the package, unopened, untried.

My love"s a musician, a wond"rous musician,
The best d*** musician I know,
But all day she types letters for the company"s betters,
And her fingers get too tired to hold down the strings
Of her dusty guitar.
So it sits in the corner, abandoned.
The strings are all tarnished and dull.
And her dreams sit in the package, unopened, unused.

And at night she comes home and drinks tea
With a stiff shot of booze.
But she is my lover, a very fine lover,
The best of the lovers I"ve had.
But all day she takes down the words spoken by clowns,
And the spark in her eye is a long-distant memory,
Buried too deep.

And at night she comes home to me,
And cries to sleep.