Maybe I should drop you at your door. Or leave tonight and vanish up the shore. Anywhere but here.
It’s three o'clock we’re driving in your car, You’re screaming out the window at the stars, “Please don’t drive me home!”
Blame us because we are who we are. Hate us because you’ll never get that far. And who’d suppose you would go? I’ve already learned enough to know.
Tell me all the places we could go. And count the headlights passing on the road, A long, long time ago.
Here we are. Foreign to their world. Straight and composed. Your sermons I can do without And I finally found. That everybody loves to love you When you’re far away. Could it be we’ve done something wrong We’d make it home to your place before dawn “Please, don’t take me home.” “Please, don’t take me home.”
“Today I feel inclined for the life of ease. It would have to be a very interesting problem to tempt me from my chair. See you, I have affairs of importance of my own to attend to.” “Such as?” “My wardrobe, Hastings. If I mistake not, there is on my new grey suit the spot of grease - only the unique spot, but it is sufficient to trouble me. Then there is my winter overcoat - I must lay him aside in the powder of Keatings. And I think - yes, I think - the moment is ripe for the trimmings of my moustaches – and afterwards I must apply the pomade.” - Agatha Christie, “The Adventure of the Clapham Cook”