What can I write home about? The water's cold, the pilot's out. I keep my children out of sight And my man never came home last night. What will I learn to tell myself? We're supposed to want for nothing else; Just show the world a stoic light But my man never came home last night This is what we make of this-- The walls all smell like blood and piss. And every book that comes our way We burn to keep the dogs away We'll tell this story later on And tell of how it made us strong. By then we'll know that we were right But my man never came home last night What will I learn to tell myself? We're supposed to want for nothing else; Just show the world a stoic light But my man never came home last night