Taylor Swift – “The Tortured Poets Department” song lyrics

This are the lyrics to the song, not the entire album. To see the lyrics of all the songs on the album, click here.

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 modes,
throwing spikes down on the road
But I’ve seen this episode and still love to show
Who else decodes you and who’s gonna love 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 Patty Smith.
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel.
We’re modern idiots
Who’s gonna love you like me?
Nobody
No fucking body
Nobody

You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate
We declare 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 let this one way come undone
I chose this cyclone with you

Who’s gonna love you like me?
(Who’s gonna hold you?)
(Who’s gonna hold you?)
And who’s gonna love you like me?
(Who’s gonna hold you?)

I laughed in your face and said
You’re not Dylan Thomas
I’m not Patty Smith
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel
We’re modern idiots
And ho’s gonna hold you like me?
(Who’s gonna hold you?)
(Who’s gonna hold you?)
Nobody
Nobody
Nobody

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
Cause we’re crazy

So tell me
Who else gonna love 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 exploded

Who’s gonna hold you?
(Who? me)
Who’s gonna know you you?
(Who? me)

And you’re not Dylan Thomas
I’m not Patty Smith
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel
We’re two idiots
Who’s gonna hold you?
(Who’s gonna hold you?)
(Who’s gonna love you?)

You left your typewriter at my apartment
Straight from the tortured poets department
Who else decodes you but me?