Couch surfing will break your back And there's not one night In ten lonely years That she's gone to sleep In her bed upstairs. It's piled high with clothes That no longer fit. Old christmas gifts With tags still affixed. She sleeps on the couch And she dreams like a slave. Dreams of her mortgage It's jaws clamped round her vertebrae. She's hollow, She'd dyeing, She's menopause-ing away. Hey there, good looking What's that microwave got cooking For you and me tonight? 'Cause it seems like You just might Stick your salt and pepper head inside. That you might scream, That you might Die just like Sylvia, Die as a slave, Die a single mother, A bleak divorcee. Dig under her affluence and this is what you'll find: Five beds, four baths, three kids, do the math. Just debt, regret, empty nest, a broken back. I was not worth throwing away all of your dreams.