Texty: Alexisonfire. Crisis. Boiled Frogs.

Old man sits at his desk
One year from retiring
And he's up for review
Not quite sure what to do,
each passing year
The workload grows

I?m always wishing, I?m always wishing too late
For things to come my way
It always ends up the same
Count your blessings
I must be missing, I must be missing the point
Your signal fades away and all I?m left with is noise
Count your blessings on one hand

So wait up I?m not sleeping alone again tonight
There?s so much to dream about, there must be more to my life

Poor little tin man, still swinging his axe
Even though his joints are clogged with rust

My youth is slipping, my youth is slipping away
Safe in monotony, so safe, day after day
Count your blessings
My youth is slipping, my youth is slipping away
cold wind blows off the lake and I know for sure that it's too late
Count your blessings on one hand

So wait up I?m not sleeping alone again tonight
There?s so much to dream about, there must be more to my life

Can?t help but feel betrayed, punch the clock every single day
There?s no loyalty and no remorse
You spoke for present check
That makes me fucking sick
He's sick of, he can?t say no

Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh

So wait up I?m not sleeping alone again tonight
There?s so much to dream about, there must be more to my life
So wait up
So wait up I?m not sleeping alone again tonight
Between the light and shallow waves is where I?m going to die
Wait up for me
Wait up for me
Wait up for me