Once again you practice telling me you won't feel clean 'til we're washed up,    posing with debris the ebb tide on the sea of love has left tossed up.    And still you strain to lend some gravity to this old verse,    although you know it's only a rehearsal.      I can't tell the panic from relief each time you swear our love has ended,    but before the curtain hits the stage it seems the run has been extended.    So now, and right on cue, I know I'll cringe and cry and curse    although I know it's only a rehearsal.      So when I hit my mark, and repeat that I don't know what you mean,    I know it's not a scene even worth stealing.    When the theater's dark and "The End" should be written on the screen,    I hear you calling out, "Once more, with feeling."      We become convincing in our roles, and then the strain begins to tell.    If we ever make opening night, it will be closing night as well.    So though we are prepared for any stage fright or reversal,    I pray that it's still only a rehearsal.   I pray that it's still only a rehearsal.