Let me put on your shoes and look at myself.
I’ll try to tippity tap tap tap dance the night away
and look like I don’t care about the way I look like I care.
Staring at me, staring at you, staring at me,
sweet caroline we’re not touching and it’s fine.
I’ve had my fill and swallowed it,
a happy pill that followed it.
Here take your shoes back,
the scene fades to black.
The way things should be dilute being genuine.
Do I care about the wrong things?
Do I care too much?
Does having an ideal keep me away from satisfaction
and being myself?
Am I being dramatic?