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I'm tired of saying |
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That I won't get lost |
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Ever again |
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Who knows, maybe I will |
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And everywhere I go |
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There I'll be with a rusty old rake |
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In a pile of leaves |
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Oh my, truly daunting |
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But my blue eyes cannot see |
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That their real hue is probably green |
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I should keep records of these things |
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And I'll know what yesterdays bring |
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And I'm not really sure |
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But I'm starting to think |
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That I've been here before |
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Who knows, maybe I have |
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And everywhere I went |
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There I was with a choir of bees |
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They were all abuzz |
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Oh my, how amusing |
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But my blue eyes cannot see |
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That their real hue is probably green |
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I should keep records of these things |
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And I'll know what yesterdays bring |
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But one time, there was this one time |
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When I swore god, she spoke to me |
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And she told me, oh yes, she told me |
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Of all the wonders that she could bring |
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And I said, won't you |
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Won't you fill me up with it? |
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Why don't you fill me up with it? |
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Won't you fill me? |
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Won't you |
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Won't you fill me up with it? |
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Why don't you fill me up with it? |
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Why don't you fill me? |
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Won't you |
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Won't you fill me up with it? |
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Why don't you fill me up with it? |
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Why don't you fill me up? |
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But my blue eyes cannot see |
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That their real hue is probably green |
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I will keep records of these things |
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And I'll know what yesterdays bring |
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I am always here with me |
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And I'll know what yesterdays bring |
