| Maggie looks out her window
|
| Sees a cab in the street
|
| Lets out a point-blank whistle
|
| It stops with a screech
|
| She picks up the last box
|
| That sits in the corner
|
| She turns around to take
|
| A mental photograph
|
| She says to herself
|
| «I think a toast is in order,»
|
| And she holds up
|
| An invisible wine glass
|
| «Here's to the fool I was
|
| Here’s to the bride I could never be
|
| I’ve gotta know what’s truth and what’s fiction
|
| I gotta feel like my love’s got conviction
|
| So tell me truth
|
| 'Cause I got me suspicions
|
| And I tell you if it’s the last thing I do
|
| I won’t cry over you. |
| .. "
|
| Maggie sits in the kitchen
|
| Of Miss Bethany Jones
|
| Whose pouring the coffee
|
| And gathering stones
|
| «You gave him ultimatums
|
| They did not even scare him
|
| He’d walk a plank
|
| Before he’d step down the aisle
|
| Take care of yourself, girl
|
| He’s the one who’s gotta change him
|
| Let him ponder bachelorhood for a long while»
|
| 'Cause I’m done with that
|
| I’m done with crying
|
| Seems like it’s the only thing
|
| That I’ve been trying
|
| They’re taking it down
|
| To the heart of the matter
|
| Talking the big picture
|
| Like it’s a little tiny thing
|
| Smaller than a bread box
|
| Thinner than a whisker
|
| They split like an atom
|
| Then the telephone rings
|
| He says
|
| «I just had to call you
|
| I feel like I’ve been spinning my wheels
|
| I just had to tell you how I feel
|
| I’m not asking you to
|
| If only you’d listen
|
| Don’t cry » |