| Force a wave and dry my face
|
| On the day you took the train to Kingston
|
| I know it was Waterloo
|
| But that don’t sing quite as smooth as Kingston
|
| I was young and I was dumb
|
| I don’t know what the hell I was expecting
|
| Of me at seventeen
|
| I think it was Carole King, it must’ve been tapestry
|
| That hung above the corner of your bed
|
| Insignificant but in my head
|
| I tried to write them out
|
| But there’s too many things I miss about you
|
| Subtlety has lost its touch
|
| I don’t laugh all that much without you
|
| Yesterday I bit my tongue
|
| Called her by the name your mother gave you
|
| She looked at me curiously
|
| I said, «It was a song I had been singing»
|
| She said, «Yeah? |
| Which one?»
|
| And so I dug
|
| I said it was Bruce Springsteen, something from The E Street
|
| And began to hum, «Rosie, you’re the one»
|
| She said that’s a lie but at least you tried
|
| It’s not hard to figure out
|
| That there’s so many things I miss about you
|
| And if it were up to me, we’d be on Talbot street
|
| Walking by the sunlight in your eyes
|
| But it’s just a dream; |
| 1, 2, 3
|
| I hide the light behind you
|
| I know that I will find you again, again |