The man who used to wear this shirt is no longer here.
For years he was, and then one day, he suddenly disappeared.
We looked high, and we looked low,
We spooked with superstition,
With no more ways for us to go,
Friends told us what we had to know.
We sold his records, scrapped his socks,
And sent away his debts,
We fix the mess, the holes, the leaks,
We watch the hours go by, the weeks.
When I hear keys in the lock,
A part of me still hopes,
He’ll walk in through the door, go watch Chinese tv,
He’ll like it that I wear his shirt
And think it’s great on me.