[Intro - fingerpicked acoustic guitar, subtle tape hiss] [Verse 1] Fluorescent lights humming at eight in the morning Staring at rows of long division again Same three steps just wearing different clothes Boredom digging down under my skin Mr. Collins stood right by the chalkboard Arms crossed, tapping chalk on the pine Said, "Where’s the homework that was due at the bell?" I said, "It’s the same old dance every time." [Verse 2] He reached in a drawer, pulled a pale white sheet Slid it flat right across my desk Big black letters across the very top: Official Excuse For Missing Homework He said, "Every single line needs ink on the grain, Don't you leave a single white border clear." So I uncapped my pen and let a sentence run wild Carried through winter right into the year. [Chorus] Give me a margin, I’ll push past the edge Give me a box, I’ll draw outside the hedge Half-baked tall tales and rambling lies Just to kill the clock while the rest of them sigh Filling up the blanks with runaway ink Faster than the secondhand let me think. [Verse 3] By late November it became our routine A new page every Tuesday noon I wrote about a stray dog hijacking a train And a lighthouse keeper howling at the moon A full-page run-on with no periods in sight Poured out just so the empty space drowned He read it in silence while the class cleared their desks Looked up over his glasses with a look of amusement. [Chorus] Give me a margin, I’ll push past the edge Give me a box, I’ll draw outside the hedge Half-baked tall tales and rambling lies Just to kill the clock while the rest of them sigh Filling up the blanks with runaway ink Faster than the secondhand let me think. [Bridge - tempo slows slightly, warm cello enters] He didn't give detention, didn't call home Just leaned on the podium and said, "Stay behind." "Where’d you dig up that yarn about the the hallucinagenic green hippos?" I said, "Nowhere special, just what crossed my mind. Anything’s better than writing out steps I already solved three weeks ago." He pulled up a stool, traded stories of his own From a town near the rust belt under four feet of snow. Said, "The world loves a line that goes straight and polite, Don't you trade that weird spark just to fit in the mold." [Guitar Solo - nostalgic, delicate fingerpicking over soft upright bass] [Chorus] Give me a margin, I’ll push past the edge Give me a box, I’ll draw outside the hedge Half-baked tall tales and rambling lies Just to kill the clock while the rest of them sigh Filling up the blanks with runaway ink Faster than the secondhand let me think. [Outro] I still lose track of where the sentences end Still keep the advice from an old wooden desk "Never let go of the noise in your head." Fading chalkboard dust. Pale whit sheet. Keep writing. [Acoustic guitar strums ring out and decay]
