Past the bouncers, ropes, and doors,nSaturday does its dancefloor choresneverywhere in pairs;nBut on the sides in their chairs...nThey'll sit there in contempt of selfnfor ever having dreamtnthat sorrow wouldn't follow the night's events;nThat it would be different.nThe highs and lows...nThe highs and lows...nnSunday's sleepy people...nSatiate your preacher's ego.nRepented sins, and spirits cleansed...nThrough the doors to be dirtied again;nThey'll sit there in contempt of selfnfor ever having dreamtnThat sorrow wouldn't follow the night's events;nThat it would be different.nnThe highs and lows...nThe highs and lows...nThe highs and lows...nn'Cause sorrow always follows the night's events,nwhen will it ever be different?