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It's getting cold. |
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Thought it was too soon to tell, |
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but it was terribly old, |
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and as the heartbeat slows |
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to a heartless crawl. |
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The lights went out, |
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The lights went out |
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and darkness filled the house |
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on tiring night under a Long Island sky. |
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I thought I'd known the consequence, |
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but sweetness, can you believe this? |
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This mess we've made of it. |
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This mess we've made of it. |
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In years to come it might make sense, |
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but sweetness, can you believe this? |
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Just what's become of it? |
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What's become of it? |
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If you hear this and you think you're ready, |
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then meet me in Montauk where, |
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we'll write out in the sand, |
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Here lies the destiny of 2 hurt souls, |
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afraid to be cured again. |
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That could be our epitaph. |
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I thought I'd known the consequence, |
|
but sweetness, can you believe this? |
|
This mess we've made of it. |
|
This mess we've made of it. |
|
In years to come it might make sense, |
|
but sweetness, can you believe this? |
|
Just what's become of it? |
|
What's become of it? (x2) |
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I'd known, I thought I'd known the consequence, |
|
but sweetness, can you believe this? |
|
This mess we've made of it. |
|
This mess we've made of it. |
|
In years to come it might make sense, |
|
but sweetness, did you foresee this? |
|
Just what's become of it? |
|
What's become of it? |
