I was in the honeymoon suite at the Canmore Hotel

I was drunk, I was dying of loneliness, looking like hell

It was seventeen years to the day since you'd turned me down

And the locals were brawling

The bar was emptying out

Did you get all the letters I sent?

Are you thinking of me?

Did you hide them in drawers?

Under cushions?

In pockets?

Up sleeves?

Well, the heater is broken, but at least I've got a TV

Imagine we'd run away together

And we'd made it this far

We'd get married for ninety-two dollars

In Riverside Park

The three sisters would cry

And tie cans to the back of my car

And I'd be in the honeymoon suite

And not back in the bar

The next morning, the weather was perfect

So I went for a drive

Through the mountains and past little homes

Little kids playing outside

A wife, and a husband

A life that should have been mine