John Hartford I've Heard The Tearstained Monologue You Do There By The Door Before You Leave
Sometimes I get to thinking that I've passed this point in life one time before.
Like the re-run of some movie that I saw a thousand Saturdays ago.
And I get the feeling that I know exactly what your gonna do and say before it happens
in each scene.
I find myself rehearsing for that blackout situation, when the punchline reaches
out and punches me.
I always play the same old part; the good guy gets the girl, I wind up dead.
Those rides into the sunset when the credits start to roll, are only flashed upon
the screen inside my head.
The show is done, the lights go up, I throw my empty popcorn box away,
go back to unreality on rubber legs, I walk into the day.
Life is never logical, the faces change, the lines all stay the same.
I know the cues where I came in, the exits but I can't recall your name.
So save your breath, don't tell me how it all comes out, somehow I think I know.
I've heard that tear stained monologue you do there by the door before you go.
What makes me take you by the hand and stand around in line one time again.
And see the same old madness while I ask "is this the place where I came in?"
So save your breath, don't tell me how it all comes out, somehow I think I know.
I've heard that tear stained monologue you do there by the door before you go.