pictures of love fill
pitchers with love
winters at home and
summers in rome
my magic art is
my fragile heart
ooh i don't think it's been told
i don't want you to grow old
it's your word
that you
will follow me
through the halls
before they've fallen
to fools
and all
the columnist writers
have not a clue
about you
wander the streets, with
wandering feet
your morning psalm
is my mourning song
locking the latch and
striking the match
ooh i don't think it's been told
i don't want you to grow old
it's your word
that you
will follow me
through the halls
before they've fallen
to fools
and all
the columnist writers
have not a clue
about you
who flies
with all
the aggregate scraping the sky
and tears
the clouds
to rain on the
fires of all
the underbrush striving
for life
and light
just like

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