Closing all the curtains and turning out the lights.
Won't chase the shadows from the walls, and that's a fact.
Turning up the music in that lonely room
can't drowned out the silence, but you know that.

If, in the wee small hours of the morning
the sweat upon your skin is all your own.
And that inane smile you're wearing, 
isn't worthy of the face its painted on.

Then, who do you think you're fooling my friend? 
And just where are you headed, standing still?
If your pride won't let you see, it's later than you think, 
and fair weather friends won't tell you, I will.

                                By Charlotte Perry