Just leave me here, would you?
We all die alone.
There’s no one to call
and no movies been shown.
It’s all sentimental,
that crap, anyway;
so just leave me here
and move away.
Just leave me here, would you;
and go live your life?
There’s not much adventure
in being my wife.
It’s all just tradition,
that stuff, anyway;
so go on
and be on your way.
Don’t bother with crying
or clutching your hands.
Just trust in your God
while he laughs at your plans,
and teaches you lessons
you don’t understand
that make you a woman or man;
and survive it the best that you can.
Just leave me here, would you?
No sense we both crack.
Pack up all your memories
and please, don’t look back.
It’s all sentimental,
that crap, anyway;
so just drive off
and I’ll be OK.
Just leave me here, would you?
Don’t bother to call
and I won’t leave the light on
for you in the hall.
It’s all a tradition,
that stuff, anyway;
go on, leave me
and just move away.
Don’t bother with weeping
or wringing your hands.
Just trust in your God,
that its part of His plan,
and remember you’ll never
full well understand
just what makes you a woman or man.
Start over, as long as you can.
1998
I’ve only written one song that reminds me of how much I owe to John Prine, as a songwriter. And it’s not really just his style alone — there’s a little Tom T. Hall thrown in for good measure, as well. This is another song from the Undertown Cycle (Frequent Reader, you will recall that’s my attempt at Springsteen’s Nebraska. Written, perhaps poignantly, shortly after my own divorce became final, this is one half of the picture.
