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(Frank Christian) |
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The drops from the faucet like a nervous heart |
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Beat on my porcelain sink a rhythm avant-garde |
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I page through the phone book, reach for my fountain pen |
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Is he comin' in for the holidays to haunt me again? |
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I call up |
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Grand Central, "information please. Is that nickel line on time? Oh fine!" |
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It's a hair-do with a wave |
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We both forgot and forgave last time |
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A peddlar of pots and pans down on |
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Union Square |
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Said City |
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Hall wants us off the street |
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There's no |
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Christmas in the air |
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Some high-brows were waiting |
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Carnation bright lapels |
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Their big cars lined the curbs outside those grand hotels |
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I passed a marquee, |
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Third Avenue "Ramona" with |
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Loretta Young and |
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I swung myself around |
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And (headed) uptown to the train |
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So this is |
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New year's eve another year has passed |
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We wait so patiently, (but) still they come and go so fast |
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I stand on this platform, wait for that basket of light |
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And the sound of the whistle screamin' out |
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Like some hot trumpet in the night |
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And ... as |
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I'm waitin' |
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I wonder why and where ... |
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And what went wrong |
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But this song don't tell no lies |
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It was just a quick good-bye, yeah |
