Best Interest

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Best Interest lyrics

Artist-supplied lyric sheet, matched by title. The sheet may differ from this released performance. Production notes and alternate promotional cuts are omitted.

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Intro

They call numbers like we furniture against the wall Plastic chairs, cold floor, cheap coffee gone stale in my jaw Her lawyer’s heels click time down the marble hall My name on a docket like a debt I’ll never pay off at all

Verse 1

Fluorescent buzz over my head, flicker like overdue bills Security wand on my belt buckle, empty pockets, overdue still Custody charts on the poster by the broken vent He’s coloring dinosaurs on a wrinkled form that says “evidence” She won’t look up, just scrolling through a payment app I’m rehearsing net pay in my notes like a nervous rap Bailiff at the door, calls a name close to mine Every cough, every whisper sounds like “you’re out of time”

Pre-chorus

If this is “best interest,” why we both feel poor? If love wrote the order, would it read like “either/or”? Clock on the wall eats hours we can’t afford I keep asking under breath, who is this really for?

Verse 2

Remember when dates was drive‑thru fries and a parking lot moon We planned three kids in the backseat, spoke their nicknames too soon We said “we’ll split everything, time, rent, tears, cartfuls of food” No mention of guidelines, line 7, subsection two We laughed at couples arguing over who paid what “Couldn’t be us,” windows fogged, dashboard hot Talked about schools, not statutes, back when future meant “when” Before we learned love can end and the paperwork never ends

Pre-chorus

If this is “best interest,” why it feel like a score? If love had the gavel, would it bang like a war? We were just two kids guessing what grown‑ups are for Now I’m staring at a summons asking who I’m working for

Verse 3

They say “it’s just 18 percent,” like rent froze in ‘04 Like gas cards don’t decline on the way to your door Retroactive math, back‑dated like a quiet fine Miss one week from overtime, it echoes down the line Wage garnishment hits Friday, net pay look like a typo Four hundred to the order, sixty more to some “filing code” She’s checking the portal, swears I’m always late I’m staring at the stub like “how I still miss when they take it straight?” Her cousin says “take him for everything, that’s what it’s for” My brother says “fight back, man, they just want more” Truth is, we both drowning on opposite sides of the same receipt Same court costs stacking while they sweep our feet

Bridge

Crayon house on a hill, stick‑figure mom, stick‑figure dad Two front doors, one tiny yard, sun that’s split in half He writes both our last names above a crooked door No box to check for “all of the above” on this form

Verse 4

Hospital light was softer, or maybe we were just new Vending machine coffee shaking in my hand when they called you Paper wristbands matched, little tag on his toes We swore “nothing comes between this,” under humming halos Your mom cried, my hands shook signing something I didn’t read Some form about acknowledging, some box about legal fees We took pictures with the nurse, said “we’ll frame this one day” Funny how the frame filled up with documents we never planned to pay

Verse 5

Judge reading numbers like scripture, head down over the stack “Based on income and time‑share, here’s the schedule, here’s the back” I catch your eye between “obligor” and “medical share” She wipes one tear fast so it doesn’t count as “doesn’t care” They say it’s not punishment, just guidelines, nothing more But the exit sign glows red like a balance we’ll never restore Is this protection or a business with our history on the floor? I sign where they highlight, still don’t know what I signed up for

Outro

Doors swing heavy, sunrise bouncing off the glass Receipt in my pocket, your name scribbled in the past Her car left first, my bus comes late once more Two sets of keys in my palm, no clean answer at the door

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