Nothing Left to Prove

Well, I’m weary, but not tired;
I couldn’t sleep a wink.
Not hindered by my inhibitions,
so there’s no need to drink.
Don’t need much validation.
Got no small talk; what’s the point?
Just passing a few hours
in this godforsaken joint.

But, man the time is crawling:
the clock’s hands are standing still;
just minding my own business
has become a test of will.
The crowd is growing restless,
on the make or on the move.
Yes, it’s hard to make it through the night
with nothing left to prove.

Well, I’m no one, doing nothing;
that’s what I like to say.
Don’t get involved in trouble,
but it always comes my way.
Don’t mean to ruffle feathers,
but sometimes that’s how it goes;
some drunken fool approaches me,
and soon enough, implodes…

Oh, man the time is crawling;
the hours just creep by.
Just five or ten more minutes
to construct an alibi.
The colored lights are spinning;
someone’s stepping on my shoes.
It’s hard to make it through the night
with nothing left to prove.

It really doesn’t matter anyway;
the worst thing ’bout membership here
is the dues you have to pay.

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