Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind; Head on the pillow, I can feel you sneakin’ in, as if you are a mythical thing, like you were a trophy or a champion ring and there was one prize I’d cheat to win.
I’m on a bench in Coney Island, wondering where did my baby go? The fast times, the bright lights, the merry go. Sorry for not making you my centerfold.