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Your silver tongue laughs at the clowns of our age |
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A slow production line of cheap-shots from both sides |
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Shot from the hip to my seventh rib |
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A spoiled tomato lies in all that you say |
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And I was the last of us to know |
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Sound the alarm for my sentimental ways |
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Have come in view and we've all got our own knives |
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Sold to the worst of the devils we know |
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Our mind and tight skin will soon be old |
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But this wasn't meant for us to know |
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Youth's open shutters |
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Give way to another |
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Taken by slight of hand |
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And every American has the mouth of a pelican |
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Now can I share that pillow with you love? |
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They've got us in fits to find a way out |
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Of this exploded view of a life once so simple |
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First with the curse that my sentimental ways |
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Are drawing my innocence to a close |
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And these were not meant for me to know |
