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I wouldn't say I was an old fool yet |
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but a time arrives in the lives of men |
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when a kindly mist enshrouds the Holy Past |
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(we wouldn't make those mistakes again). |
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The backward glance: always a price to pay |
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for who has lived that time has not battered? |
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As we stand at the mercy of the sun- |
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no longer those whom the daylight flatters. |
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Sometimes the scent on a drifting breeze |
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draws us back to when all of our hands were clean |
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when all the world seemed comprehensible: |
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what we had with all those simpler machines |
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(and still we yearn for all those simpler machines...) |
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Shell-shocked by the speed of life |
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and nothing broken we know how to mend |
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bewildered by such perpetual delights: |
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we want to feel the wheels and architraves again. |
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And preciously; precariously |
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-robust as porcelain figurines- |
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we take a bow and start to say goodnight |
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comrades for ever with all those simpler machines |
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locked into history with those simpler machines |
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The Scrapyard Stars are glittering tonight: |
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the shards and smithereens |
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No question: it is a sentimental sight |
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our toys and tools all of those simpler machines. |
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they'll break your heart alright, those simpler machines... |