Home Is Where You Make It

There's a building in the city where my money goes
Where I stare at blank walls, unlearning all I've known
I'm so sick of paying tolls and driving home in the fucking snow
No one grooved up to your casket in those funny clothes
Jesus died for nothing, I suppose

I don't want to be your radio
Tuning in to any station you might like that fits your selfish needs on winter nights
When you would call me on the phone
To validate all of the stupid selfish reasons why your house is not a home

And this house is not a home
No this house is not a home
It's all just skin and bones
Without you

My mouth will never move in the right way
On Saturdays
And on sadder days I've had the company
Of one or two, of few and true
But never you

And this house is not a home
No this house is not a home
It's all just skin and bones
Without you