I call him from a taxi, a train,
boarding a plane,
and he's there, he's waiting for me.
I call him
as I juggle dreams, organize schemes,
and he's there, he's waiting for me.
And I think of what I've got,
all that I am not.
He shares me with a lot.
He shares me with a lot.
I call him
when those who decide have wounded my pride,
and he's there,
he's waiting for
me.
I call him
with a case of the blues,
what they now call the news,
and he's there,
he's
waiting for me.
And I think of what I've got,
all that I am not.
He shares me with a lot.
He shares me with a lot.
Pushed up to the edge, a universal way,
he talks me off a ledge with what he has to say.
I call him
holding
her hand,
helping her stand,
and he's there,
he's waiting for me.
I call him
from a chair by a bed,
a long night's ahead,
and he's there,
he's waiting for me.
And I think of what I've got,
all that I am not.
He shares me with a lot.
He shares me with a lot.
And I think of what I've got,
all that
I am not.
He shares me with a lot.
He shares me with a lot.