Coming Up Short

I had my bags all packed,
left this coat up on the rack
then snagged a thread on the way to leave,
recalled how it used to look on me,
and once more, I'm rolling up its sleeves.
But I keep coming up short
like Napoleonic war,
and though I'm still a little sore
like a boxer from the floor,
I keep coming back for more.
The road ahead brings a worn smile
when I look back on the last mile.
Break my bones, cut my feet,
shake the ground 'til I quease.
Bring up blisters, bugs, disease.
There will be no more wasted time for me.
Now, that's not to say I'm living perfectly.
I've traded boozing for a tooth that's more than sweet,
but if I'm glutting my stomach uncomfortably,
I guess I'd rather have my liver fight gum disease.
And if the teeth have got to go,
then the teeth will have to go.
Cause if I'm dust, then life's a good stiff breeze.
And like the rings around a tree show it takes time for one to grow
and even as you branch out, your roots will trip you as you go.
And like the aforementioned tooth decay,
there are things I could tend to yesterday
Collecting dust is easy, but marching on gets hard.
The road ahead brings a worn smile
when I look back at the last mile.
Break my bones, cut my feet,
shake the ground 'til I quease.
Bring up blisters, bugs, disease.
There will be no more wasted time for me.
But I keep coming up short
like Napoleonic war,
and though I'm still a little sore
like a boxer from the floor,
I keep coming back for more.
The road ahead brings a worn smile
when I look back at the last mile.
Break my bones, cut my feet,
shake the ground 'til I quease.
Bring up blisters, bugs, disease.
There will be no more wasted time for me.