|
He still likes the bar room's dim-lit |
|
Smoky atmosphere |
|
The different kinds of perfume |
|
Conversations he overhears |
|
He's just one of many winding down |
|
Or winding up the night |
|
The only way he knows to let loose |
|
Is to hold on tight |
|
And he'll never lose that hold |
|
And he'll never change his ways |
|
The good times won't grow old |
|
These are the good old days |
|
He's got no broken romance |
|
That sent him wondering way back |
|
When he carries the torch for no one |
|
That's the way it's always been |
|
He's just one of the chosen few |
|
Who won't push or two that line |
|
He knows he'd only lose his mind |
|
He'd never lose his mind |
|
And he'll never lose that hold |
|
And he'll never change his ways |
|
The good times won't grow old |
|
These are the good old days |
|
And he'll never lose that hold |
|
And he'll never change his ways |
|
The good times won't grow old |
|
These are the good old days |
|
These are the good old days |
