Well, it’s nine o’clock, so I’d say you’re drinking coffee
from your china cup, as bitter as my tears,
And you’re listening to your favourite radio station,
Where the listeners of the nation
garner meagre consolation
from inarticulate narration of their peers.
And yes, I know, I’m sounding really bitter.
Well, I’m sorry but that’s just the way I feel.
Try to put yourself in my place for a minute:
I feel such a desperation
at this hopeless situation
that I’ve no power or inclination to conceal.
And it feels like I am stumbling through a fog.
It’s hard when you’ve been bitten by the bug.
You’re at the end of your rope,
you feel that there’s no hope,
self-pity is a most addictive drug!
Mr. DJ, there’s a caller on line 7,
‘Bitter, from the South’, won’t give his name.
There’s someone that I know who always tunes in,
Would you kindly tell that listener
that I’m not even missing her
and I wouldn’t dream of kissing her again…
Now, it’s nine p.m. so I know you’re sipping cocktails
From your crystal goblet, chilled, just like your heart.
Now, I know that you don’t need to drink to forget me,
Why should you pay heed
to something that us so beneath you?
We both know you didn’t need me from the start.
It’s nine o’clock and I don’t miss you.
I’m not even thinking about you.