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With his fool's gold stacked up all around him |
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From a killing in the market on the war |
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The children left King Midas there, as they found him |
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In his counting house where nothing counts but more |
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CHORUS: |
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And he thought he heard the echo of a penny whistle band |
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And the laughter from a distant caravan |
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And the brightly painted line of circus wagons in the sand |
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Fading through the door into summer |
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With his travelogues of "maybe next year"'s places |
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As a trade-in for a name upon the door |
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And he pays for every year he cannot buy back with his tears |
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As he finds out there's been no one keeping score |
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CHORUS... |
