You keep comin’ to the same old place
’cause it doesn’t ask much of you,
it doesn’t need your full cooperation
to make you feel the best it can do.
And most of the time when you look around
you’re politely returning a smile you don’t want
in the first place, shaking a hand you don’t want
to touch, mouthing words you don’t hear.
But you’re still suckin’ on a corncob,
lookin’ at the door;
the party’s long been over
and there won’t be any more.
But it’s cold outside and it’s warm in here,
at least, ’til they lock the doors,
and no one needs you to love it here
’cause they know where you were before.
So you’ll keep comin’ to the same old place
so long as they don’t ask much of you,
ten years still suckin’ on a corncob
like it’s all you ever knew.