my father sits at night with no lights on
his cigarette glows in the dark.
the living room is still;
i walk by, no remark.
i tiptoe past the master bedroom where
my mother reads her magazines.
i hear her call sweet dreams,
but i forgot how to dream.

but you say it's time we moved in together
and raised a family of our own, you and me -
well, that's the way i've always heard it should be:
you want to marry me, we'll marry.

my friends from college they're all married now;
they have their houses and their lawns.
they have their silent noons,
tearful nights, angry dawns.
their children hate them for the things they're not;
they hate themselves for what they are-
and yet they drink, they laugh,
close the wound, hide the scar.

but you say it's time we moved in together
and raised a family of our own, you and me -
well, that's the way i've always heard it should be:
you want to marry me, we'll marry.

you say we can keep our love alive
babe - all i know is what i see -
the couples cling and claw
and drown in love's debris.
you say we'll soar like two birds through the clouds,
but soon you'll cage me on your shelf -
i'll never learn to be just me first
by myself.

well o.k., it's time we moved in together
and raised a family of our own, you and me -
well, that's the way i've always heard it should be,
you want to marry me, we'll marry,
we'll marry.