Heed this warning, mister
my motives may seem phony
but that fog outside is rising
and you look a little lonely.
You have to hear the story
about February's ghost
and her hazing ceremony.
One year ago I had a perfect life
a wife, good job, and happy home
a future full of loveshine
and I had no urge to roam.
Then one mild mid-winter's day the sky turned monochrome
and the clouds blocked out the sun.
She came at me like a friend
smiled at me just like a friend.
I began to come undone.
Through swirling mist, the melting snow revealed last year's bouquet
and at its sight all grace inside me shattered.
And to my wife's surprise
I hid the truth and told her lies
because the fog was warm and all that mattered.
So with cracking lip I sung
a song called Wicked Game
and in my drunken ear
a twisted truth had rung.
Such a naive invitation to her hazy infestation
meant that February fog was soon to follow.
I flung the doors wide open
to my house, my heart, and mind
and as she seized all three
these words were spoken:
Tanta stultitia mortalium est.
Which I'm told translates to
such is the foolishness of mortals
and ever since I haven't had much rest.
My pain had just begun
here was a lot more pain to come
like a dagger being pressed into my chest.
The sound of my wife's sobbing spilled on down the hall
her face wet against the phone.
Another soul to know my shame
one more mark against my name
merely reaping that which I had sown.
I recall an inner dialogue
once warning me this winter fog
would carve me like a Valentine's day hog.
But little did I realize
that It would bleed into my eyes
and bring this cursed never-ending fog.
The lights now all have halos
though my angels have all gone
and the darkness sings its praises to my sin.
And while I may be blinder
it serves a stark reminder
of the spider dying deep within.
And where my thoughts once raced
these days they barely crawl
even with a coffee set to kill.
It's not bitterness I taste
but the blandness of advice unfit for fools
trust me when I say I've heard it all.
So on this I must insist
that neither nurse nor exorcist
knows the nature of the February fog.
Heed this warning, mister
I never even kissed her
but I'm still trapped inside this February fog.
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