Overs
Why don´t we stop fooling ourselves?
The game is over,
Over,
Over.
No good times, no bad times,
There´s no times at all,
Just The New York Times,
Sitting on the windowsill
Near the flowers.
We might as well be apart.
It hardly matters,
We sleep separately.
And drop a smile passing in the hall
But there´s no laughs left
´Cause we laughed them all.
And we laughed them all
In a very short time.
Time
Is tapping on my forehead,
Hanging from my mirror,
Rattling the teacups,
And I wonder,
How long can I delay?
We´re just a habit
Like saccharin.
And I´m habitually feelin´ kinda blue.
But each time I try on
The thought of leaving you,
I stop...
I stop and think it over.
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