Discover the themes, story, and feeling behind this song.
You left your typewriter at my apartment | Straight from the Tortured Poets Department | I think some things I never say
You left your typewriter at my apartment Straight from the Tortured Poets Department I think some things I never say Like "Who uses typewriters anyway?" But You're in self-sabotage mode Throwing spikes down on the road But I've seen this episode and still love the show Who else decodes you? And who's gonna (hold you) like me? And who's gonna (know you) if not me? I laughed in your face and said, "You're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith "This ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we're modern idiots" And who's gonna (hold you) like me? No, nobody No-fucking-body Nobody You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever But you awaken with dread, pounding nails in your head But I've read this one where you come undone I chose this cyclone with you And who's gonna (hold you) like me? (Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you?) And who's gonna (know you) like me? (Who's gonna hold you?) I laughed in your face and said, "You're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith "This ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we're modern idiots" And who's gonna (hold you) like me? (Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you?) No-fucking-body (who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you?) Nobody (who's gonna hold you? Gonna know you? Gonna troll you?) Nobody Sometimes I wonder if you're gonna screw this up with me But you told Lucy you'd kill yourself if I ever leave And I had said that to Jack about you so I felt seen Everyone we know understands why it's meant to be Because we're crazy So tell me who else is gonna (love me?) At dinner, you take my ring off my middle finger and put it on the one People put wedding rings on And that's the closest I've come to my heart exploding Who's gonna hold you? (Who?) Me Who's gonna know you? (Who?) Me And you're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith This ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we're two idiots Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Who's gonna hold you? Gonna know you? Gonna troll you? You left your typewriter at my apartment Straight from the tortured poets department Who else decodes you? Who, ooh? Who, ooh? Who, ooh?
No similar tracks yet.
