| When we were simple and naïve
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| We wore our feelings on our sleeve
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| As we’ve grown jaded and corrupt
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| Our manner’s guarded and abrupt
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| Oh, how we’d smile most readily
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| Whilst ploughing on unsteadily
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| Now frowns are etched upon our face
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| We can no longer stand the pace
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| Although we’ve got to go, with the passing show
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| It doesn’t ever mean, we haven’t made the scene
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| And what we think we know, to what is really so
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| Is but a smithereen, of what it might have been
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| We’d sing in gay abandon then
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| We’d get it wrong and try again
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| As here we brood with doubts assailed
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| Nothing ventured, nothing failed
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| When life itself can chart the course
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| Then life’s the product we endorse
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| When circumstances tell of death
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| We keep our counsel, save our breath
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| Although we’ve got to go, with the passing show
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| It doesn’t ever mean, we haven’t made the scene
|
| And what we think we know, to what is really so
|
| Is but a smithereen, of what it might have been
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| Our laughter rang around the world
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| When we were happy boys and girls
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| As now we baulk and hesitate
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| Encumbrance comes to those who wait
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| But when we’re torn from mortal coil
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| We leave behind a counterfoil
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| It’s what we did and who we knew
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| And that’s what makes this story true
|
| Although we’ve got to go, with the passing show
|
| It doesn’t ever mean, we haven’t made the scene
|
| And what we think we know, to what is really so
|
| Is but a smithereen, of what it might have been
|
| Although we’ve got to go, with the passing show
|
| It doesn’t ever mean, we haven’t made the scene
|
| And what we think we know, to what is really so
|
| Is but a smithereen, of what it might have been |