I've been writing this song all day. six hours or so, straight. it's almost done.

Mail-Order Magazine

I know I’m not your mother,
I care about more than your “well-being.”
I know I’m not your brother,
But I’m really mad at Dad for what you’ve done.

There’s a mystery drink on the boots you bought me
from that Mail-Order magazine
You found me drunk on the steps
Trying to light my cigarettes in the Tennessee Valley breeze.
If you want me, then wake me tomorrow.

don’t call me your friend,
Cause I don’t give a shit, how you’ve been.
You can just call me your neighbor,
Cause I can’t keep from peeking through the fence.

There’s a mystery drink on the boots you bought me
from that Mail-Order magazine
You found me drunk on the steps,
Trying to light my cigarettes in the Tennessee Valley breeze.
If you want me then wake me tomorrow
And I’ll get to know you then
You can help me hide the bottles until the sun quits peeking in.
And then you can wake me tomorrow again.