You call me every night and tell me that you feel like shit

I say, "I'm sorry, is there any way I can help with it?"

I listen to you scream, the world is simply your enemy

"With death and taxes, what's the point of tryna be happy?"

And I've had bad days, bad years

Bad boys and bad careers

But I'm still standin' here

I understand you, darlin', but at the end of the day

You just won't help yourself

Rather give someone else

A glimpse into your hell

Pour all your problems on 'em just so you can walk away.

Boy, I'm too young to be your mother

Not smart enough to be your therapist either

And I'm always here if you need a talk

But maybe first, you should take a walk

'cause I'm not gonna make you change

That's above my pay grade, babe.