The Grate

The low moan of your voice on the phone
Comes through the floor from below
I'm listening in when you think you're alone
Alone

I press my ear to the grate
Who keeps you up so late
Well you won't hear me complain

Cause years turn my bones to dust
You change and I adjust
Adjust

I shift my weight to the side
Futile, my tears to your pride
We leave on the bathroom light