I thought you would be, insane at twenty-three.
Now, I'm that weirdo screaming on the train.
You're setting fires inside my head.
I'd like to believe you.
It's not arson, maybe just a warm goodbye for me.
It's cold inside my heart, cold, dark, and crazy.
Sweater weather for you, and a straight-jacket for me.
Head down, hands tied, dreaming only of you.
Who can rescue me from this padded room.
If I got my mouth on some cyanide,
Or a shotgun, maybe I'd survive.
Head down, hands tied, dreaming only of you.
Who can rescue me from this padded room.
And our get-away car is parked outside.
I'll ride shotgun, baby, you can drive.
