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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 |
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King Midas there as they found him |
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In his counting house where nothing counts but more |
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And he thought he heard the echoes 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 travel logs of 'maybe next year' places |
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As a trade-in for a name upon the door |
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And he pays for it with years 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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And he thought he heard the echoes 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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Yes, he thought he heard the echoes 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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Fading through the door into summer |
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Fading through the door into summer |
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Fading through the door into summer... |
