The Tortured Poets Department

Taylor Swift

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  S1:
  You left your typewriter at my apartment 

  Straight from the tortured poets department 

  I think some things I never say 

  Like, "Who uses typewriters anyway" 

  But you're in self-sabotage mode throwing spikes down on the road 

  But I've seen this episode and still loved the show 

  Who else decodes you
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  R1:
  And who's gonna hold you 

  Like me 

  And who's gonna know you 

  If not me 

  I laughed in your face and said, "You're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith 

  This ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we'rе modern idiots" 

  And who's gonna hold you 

  Like me
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  R2:
  Nobody 

  No-fucking-body 

  Nobody
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  S2:
  You smokеd, then ate seven bars of chocolate 

  We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist 

  I scratch your head, you fall asleep 

  Like a tattooed golden retriever 

  But you awaken with dread pounding nails in your head 

  But I've read this one where you come undone 

  I chose this cyclone with you
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  R1:
  And who's gonna hold you 

  Like me 

  And who's gonna know you 

  Like me 

  I laughed in your face and said, "You're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith 

  This ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we'rе modern idiots" 

  And who's gonna hold you like me
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  R2:
  (who's gonna hold you, who's gonna hold you) 

  No-fucking-body (who's gonna hold you, who's gonna hold you) 

  Nobo---dy (who's gonna hold you, gonna know you, gonna troll you) 

  Nobody (ooh-ooh)
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  B1:
  Sometimes, I wonder if you're gonna screw this up with me 

  But you told Lucy you'd kill yourself if I ever leave 

  And I had said that to Jack about you, so I felt seen 

  Everyone we know understands why it's meant to be 

  x-x- 'Cause we're 

  Cra---zy 

  So tell me, who else is gonna 

  Know me 

  At dinner, you take my ring off my middle finger 

  And put it on the one people put wedding rings on 

  And that's the closest I've come to my heart exploding
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  R2:
  Who's gonna hold you 

  (who) Me 

  Who's gonna know you 

  (who) Me 

  And you're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith 

  This ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we're two idiots 

  Who's gonna hold you
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  D1:
  Who's gonna hold you, who's gonna hold you 

  Who's gonna hold you, who's gonna hold you 

  Who's gonna hold you, gonna know you, gonna troll you 

  Ooh-ooh 

  You left your typewriter at my apartment 

  Straight from the tortured poets department 

  Who else decodes you
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  D2:
  Ooh-ooh-ooh 

  Ooh-ooh-ooh 

  Ooh-ooh-ooh 

  Ooh-ooh-ooh 

  x