Here I am, back at the door
even though I don't live here anymore.
When there's no answer I should say: That's that.
But instead, I just grab the key -
I left under the mat.
I knew that I'd be back
I knew I would retreat over the track.
I hate that I'm here, it's not where I oughta be;
but it's the most familiar place,
when I am prodigal me.
The problem's always the same-
not sure if it is small pleasures, or big shame;
but when I turn the key and tumble the lock,
the two enemies I face are
the devil and the clock.
Neither one's quite as you'd fear,
one's just stoned-faced,
the other grinning ear-to-ear.
But neither makes a quick move,
while you're still at the door...
Showing temptation, and always offering more.