Tonight I’m going to make some predictable mistakes.
But if you haven’t got regrets, you haven’t started yet.

You point your finger so much, you wore it down to the bone;
It’s a wonder you can still type that shit on your phone.
Everyone’s a dupe, yeah, but somehow you’re not.
Hold onto that feeling,
Because you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.

I’m genuinely sorry for all the stupid things I’ve done;
All the things I used to say, more than half of them were wrong.
I’m trying to find a little forgiveness, it’s the only thing left going,
Because there’s not such thing as pure.
No one has a perfect score.

I’m jealous of your sense of wounded innocence,
And I’m bored of arguments with fraudulent intent
(I know what you really meant).

History is not a package holiday
Where if something isn’t perfect then you get to complain.
The older I get the more I realise that I
Don’t know much of anything,
That’s why I’m trying to hold my tongue.

There’s a skeleton behind your door.
No perfect score.