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
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