I've grown accustomed to you.

I've grown accustomed to you.

The way you speak.

It's a crime that I complain.


Sometimes I get to thinking of

Times I've past and some useless crap.

It's a crime that I complain.


Baby, I was beat or perhaps I just got bored.

Baby, conversation can carry more.


And now and then I get drunk to hell.

I wake up sick, and I hate myself.

It's a crime that I complain.


I don't mind the quiet.

Talking is such a drag

Forget it, forget it.

Forget it, forget it