Sour suitethe guess whowritten by burton cummingsdon't wanna listen to my telephone ringor sing ding-a-ling or talk about a thingnot this mornin'i don't wanna think about the night beforeor maybe it's a bore behind that open doorgot no time for that this mornin'if i had the mind or i had the timemaybe i could throw together a new kind of rhymeand tell about my warnin'but it's too late nowit's too late nowit's too late nowi don't wanna think about a runaway dadthat took away the only thing that i've ever haddon't even miss him this mornin'i don't wanna think about a cold goodbyeor a high school buddy got a little too highi can't help him out this mornin'reviewers laugh at me so i go out to seeand perhaps it's just as well, 'cause i'd rather be in hellthan be a wealthy man this mornin'but it's too late nowit's too late nowit's too late nowwhatever happened to images, 'cause now they're goneand worn out phrases just keep a-hangin' onwhatever happened to homes as opposed to houses?a conversation, sayings as the evening drowsesit's just like 4 6 2 o 1it's just like 4 6 2 o 1whatever happened to early morning urban skies?and broken faces, half with melting eyesenough of riddles that just play with time'cause i'm still here and i can't beg a dimei'm back here in 4 6 2 o 1i'm back here in 4 6 2 o 1some bed is waitin' for me 'round the corner nowi gotta find it and try and hang on for a little whileback here in 4 6 2 o 1, yeahmmm, there's gotta be a few small changes madedon't wanna listen to my telephone ringor sing ding-a-ling or talk about a thingleave me alone this mornin'