Ani Difranco - Parameters Lyrics
Thirty-three years go byAnd not once do you come homeTo find a man sitting in your bedroomThat isA man you don't knowWho came a long way to deliver one very specific message:Lock your back door, you idiotHowever invincible you imagine yourself to beYou are wrongThirty-three years go byAnd you loosen the momentum of teenage nightmaresYour breasts hang like a woman'sAnd you don't jump at shadows anymoreInstead you may simply pause to admireThose that move with the grace of treesDancing past streetlightsAnd you walk through your house without turning on lampsSure of the angle from door to tableFrom table to staircaseSure of the number of stepsSeven to the landingTwo to turn rightThen seven moreSure you will stroll serenely on the moving walkway of memoryAcross your bedroomAnd collapse with a sigh onto your bedShoes fallingThunk thunkOnto the floorAnd there will be no strange manSuddenly all that time sitting thereSitting there on what must be the prize chairIn your collection of uncomfortable chairsWith a wild look in his eyesAnd hands that you cannot seeHolding what?You do not knowSo sure are you of the endless drumming rhythm of your isolationThat you are painfully slow to adjustIf only becauseYours is not that genre of storyStill and again, life cannot muster the stuff of moviesNo bullets shattering glassInstead fear sits patientlyFear almost smiles when you finally see himThough you have kept him waiting for thirty-three yearsAnd now he has let himself inAnd he has brought you fistfuls of teenage nightmaresThough you think you see, in your naiveteThat he is empty handedAnd this brings you great reliefAt the timeNew as you are, really, to the idea thatEven after you've long since gotten used to the parametersThey can all changeWhile you're out one night having a drink with a friendSome big hand may be turning a big dialSwitching channels on your dreamsUntil you find yourself lost in themAnd watching your daily life with the sound offAnd of course having cautiously turned down the flame under your eyesThere are more shadows around everythingYour vision a dim flashlight that you have to shake all the way to the outhouseYour solitude elevating itself like the spirit of the deadPresiding over your supposed reposeNot really sleep at allJust a sleeping position and a series of suspicious soundsA clanking pipeA creaking branchThe footfalls of a catAll of this and maybeThe swish of the soft leather of your intruder's coatAs you walk him step by step back to the doorHaving talked him down off the ledge of a very bad ideaSoft leather, big feet, almond eyesThe kinds of details the police officer would ask for laterWith his clipboardAnd his pistolIn your hallway
