Back Hit

I'm sorry every time we meet
I try to sweep you off your feet
And end up drunk in the street

And I know that it is fake, making promises
I'll break with tomorrow's headache

In my defence, it makes no sense that every friday evening
We go out to drink and shout and give our lives meaning
But who am I to have to try to break from the madness
And be destroyed by those annoyed I've escaped from the sadness?