I've grown accustomed to you. I've grown accustomed to you. The way you speak. It's a crime that I complain. Sometimes I get to thinking of Times I've past and some useless crap. It's a crime that I complain. Baby, I was beat or perhaps I just got bored. Baby, conversation can carry more. And now and then I get drunk to hell. I wake up sick, and I hate myself. It's a crime that I complain. I don't mind the quiet. Talking is such a drag Forget it, forget it. Forget it, forget it.