In the Summertime
Nothing ever matters in the summertime
The sun melts our minds and dries our throats
We need something to drink - but what?
Last year, we stuck to lemonade and soda.
But we’re older now.
We won’t settle for anything that won’t get us in trouble.
We won’t settle for anything less than what burns our throats and hurts our heads
It’s summertime and we’ve got no reason to regard our health
It’s exciting, you know, being so close to the amber stench of death.
“Just this once”, we promise each other on the porch before parting.
But all of our promises have always gone to hell.
By mid-July, it’s a vice and we’re drunk by 2 pm.
We’ve been kicked off our sports teams and out of our houses for weeks
And we’ve grown accustomed to the dizziness and the trembling and the blackouts and the nights
out
We’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve had to hold each other’s hair up
“It’s fine,” we repeat, avoiding each other’s eyes. “It’s only because the temperature’s so high.”
It’ll all be over come fall. Nothing matters in the summertime.
August brings rustling wind that threatens to knock us off our feet.
We hold on to the bottle like it’s our only lifeline.
In the back of our minds, we know that it is anything but.
The intoxication disappears, but the effects, they echo.
We haven’t seen our families in weeks.
We’ve got bloody knuckles and bruised knees.
I’m far out of my own reach.
You slur on all the words you don't choke on.
Every morning, we down our whiskey and our gin so that the seconds don't seem like hours
But as soon as our drinks take over, the hours seem like seconds
And I steal another from our stash for seconds.
“We’re threats to our families!” we cry. “To ourselves and society!”
It’s kind of a chicken or the egg situation: What came first: the alcohol or the misery?
It’s September, and we’ve wasted away in the heat.
The girl scouts scoff at us as they sell lemonade in the street.
We’ve got no story to tell, nothing to give, nothing to lose.
Ten years later, we’re still singing our blues.
When nothing matters at all, it sure as hell doesn’t matter in the summertime.
Whether you’re 13 or 83, with a bottle in your hand,
Nothing ever matters in the summertime.
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