|
Sitting on a broken dream |
|
And memories are what might have been |
|
Biscuit crumbs and bird seed in his |
|
Whiskers, whiskers, whiskers |
|
Even though he never went to war |
|
He still felt something worth fighting for |
|
But no one else ever cared as much as |
|
Whiskers, whiskers, whiskers |
|
Whiskers, whiskers, whiskers |
|
He sits in the moonlight |
|
on top of the hill |
|
Playing a penny whistle |
|
and picking thistles out of his kilt |
|
He rubs his paws together |
|
and it begins to snow |
|
As he counts up all the Christmas lights |
|
in the village down below |
|
He sits around the campfire |
|
and licks at his wounds |
|
Staring sadly back at his reflection |
|
in a spoon |
|
We used to want the same things |
|
when we were growing up |
|
But somewhere along the way |
|
I started hoping for too much |
|
I found his little plastic shield |
|
Chewed up on the battlefield |
|
And I knew then I'd never make a friend again like |
|
Whiskers, whiskers, whiskers |
|
Whiskers, whiskers, whiskers |
|
Whiskers, whiskers, whiskers |
|
Whiskers, whiskers, whiskers |
