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