If i have the space of half a day,
I’m ashamed of half the things I say.
I’m ashamed to have turned out this way,
and i desire to make amends:
But it don’t make no difference, now,
and no-one’s listening, anyhow,
and lists of sins and solemn vows
don’t make you any friends.
There’s an old trick played,
when the light and the wine conspire
to make me think I’m fine.
I’m not, but i have got half a mind
to maybe get there, yet.
When the sky goes pink in Paris, France,
do you think of the girl who used to dance
when you’d frame her moving within your hands,
saying This I won’t forget?
What happened to the man you were,
when you loved somebody before her?
Did he die?
Or does that man endure, somewhere far away?
Our lived come easy and our lives come hard.
We carry them like a pack of cards:
some we don’t use, but we don’t discard,
but keep for a rainy day.