Tears rolling down my face,

Tears rolling down my face,

He always wants his own space.

There's never a day he puts down

the can,

And I'm not proud to say I call him

my old man.

We talk everyday, yeah he's still here,

But sometimes he loves me less than his

beer.

It's a joke, it's a game, whenever he's drunk,

Now I know why my mom always hated that

junk.

He laughs and smiles as he takes another sip,

Just the thought of drinking beer is enough to make

me sick.

He really can't see what that can does to me,

He never hurt me or touched me, but he still 

can't see. 

It's more than a drink that he holds in his hands,

It's an addiction, a problem, a contract with demands.