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Sour suitethe guess whowritten by burton cummingsdonand't wanna listen to my telephone ringor sing ding-a-ling or talk about a thingnot this morninand'i donand't wanna think about the night beforeor maybe itand's a bore behind that open doorgot no time for that this morninand'if i had the mind or i had the timemaybe i could throw together a new kind of rhymeand tell about my warninand'but itand's too late nowitand's too late nowitand's too late nowi donand't wanna think about a runaway dadthat took away the only thing that iand've ever haddonand't even miss him this morninand'i donand't wanna think about a cold goodbyeor a high school buddy got a little too highi canand't help him out this morninand'reviewers laugh at me so i go out to seeand perhaps itand's just as well, and'cause iand'd rather be in hellthan be a wealthy man this morninand'but itand's too late nowitand's too late nowitand's too late nowwhatever happened to images, and'cause now theyand're goneand worn out phrases just keep a-hanginand' onwhatever happened to homes as opposed to houses?a conversation, sayings as the evening drowsesitand's just like 4 6 2 o 1itand's just like 4 6 2 o 1whatever happened to early morning urban skies?and broken faces, half with melting eyesenough of riddles that just play with timeand'cause iand'm still here and i canand't beg a dimeiand'm back here in 4 6 2 o 1iand'm back here in 4 6 2 o 1some bed is waitinand' for me and'round the corner nowi gotta find it and try and hang on for a little whileback here in 4 6 2 o 1, yeahmmm, thereand's gotta be a few small changes madedonand't wanna listen to my telephone ringor sing ding-a-ling or talk about a thingleave me alone this morninand'
The Guess Who
Sour Suite
Sour Suite
Sour suitethe guess whowritten by burton cummingsdonand't wanna listen to my telephone ringor sing ding-a-ling or talk about a thingnot this morninand'i donand't wanna think about the night beforeor maybe itand's a bore behind that open doorgot no time for that this morninand'if i had the mind or i had the timemaybe i could throw together a new kind of rhymeand tell about my warninand'but itand's too late nowitand's too late nowitand's too late nowi donand't wanna think about a runaway dadthat took away the only thing that iand've ever haddonand't even miss him this morninand'i donand't wanna think about a cold goodbyeor a high school buddy got a little too highi canand't help him out this morninand'reviewers laugh at me so i go out to seeand perhaps itand's just as well, and'cause iand'd rather be in hellthan be a wealthy man this morninand'but itand's too late nowitand's too late nowitand's too late nowwhatever happened to images, and'cause now theyand're goneand worn out phrases just keep a-hanginand' onwhatever happened to homes as opposed to houses?a conversation, sayings as the evening drowsesitand's just like 4 6 2 o 1itand's just like 4 6 2 o 1whatever happened to early morning urban skies?and broken faces, half with melting eyesenough of riddles that just play with timeand'cause iand'm still here and i canand't beg a dimeiand'm back here in 4 6 2 o 1iand'm back here in 4 6 2 o 1some bed is waitinand' for me and'round the corner nowi gotta find it and try and hang on for a little whileback here in 4 6 2 o 1, yeahmmm, thereand's gotta be a few small changes madedonand't wanna listen to my telephone ringor sing ding-a-ling or talk about a thingleave me alone this morninand'
