How I don't know how to sing. I can barely play this thing.
But you never seem to mind,
and you tell me to fuck off when I need somebody to.
How you make me laugh so hard.
How whole years refuse to stay where we told them to,
bad dog, locked up whining in a word or a misplaced souvenir.
How the past chews on your shoes, and these memories lick my ear.
How we waste our precious time marching in the picket lines that surround those striking hearts.
How the time is never now, and we know who we should love, but we're never certain how.
I know you might roll your eyes at this, but I'm so glad that you exist.
(The Weakerthans: The Reasons. Reconstruction Site, 2003.)