They know the game
I know the score
When they open the Italian
restaurant door

The laughter of jocks
is the laughter I loathe
standing ready to wait
and watching their show

Working class waif
pouring their water
I'd take their orders
but why even bother?

Pizza and pop and
everything cheap
I'll go wash some dishes
and forget these creeps

But then she arrives
The quarterback's girl
and I can't leave my eyes
on the dark windowsill

So I stand and I sulk
as working boys do
when the game is over
and they're ignoring you

Once had she set
her eyes upon me
in younger days
without popularity

Now in the light
of how the world runs
I am not remembered
I am no one