It feels like dodging jury duty,
excuses ringing loud
to see your name flash on my caller I.D.
as I try to get out of the draft on account of flat feet,
making Uncle Sam proud to call me
American.
Born red, white, and blue
but to bleed for you?
Tried that twice before, left me hemorrhaging,
nicked too close to some artery,
got pale as the ghost that creaks my floorboards.
Holiday nights without relief.
So no, no thank you Mr. Judge.
Tell the courts I'm useless.
Don't have honor enough to weigh the scales,
my fucked up logic
could get anyone off on bail.
Don't have it in me to say yes or no,
inevitable if I actually answer the phone.
So when you go straight to voicemail,
don't take it too hard.
It's not that you're a burden, just a certain reminder
that decision is making best laid plans,
to finally close that fence in,
keep me behind bars.
But go ahead and leave a message after the tone,
It'll be nice to hear your voice while I'm hitting the road.
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