| Becky’s playing a piece by Gershwin on her old piano
|
| She’s been playing since her childhood, «Too long to recall…»
|
| But the chords that fall from her fingertips, are the same
|
| She played when she could barely sit still, back in '69
|
| When the keys made her hands look small
|
| And she built her dream around symphonies and concertos
|
| Around traveling the country, and playing the music halls
|
| Four kids later the dreams been reduced to «what-if» scenarios
|
| But hey, to never dream is to have never lived at all
|
| Never lived at all
|
| Dave’s a corporate lawyer in the city of Chicago
|
| And for fifteen years, he’s had his nose to the old grindstone
|
| Poured his money in the bank to feed the beast called portfolio
|
| Well, if time is money then success is a life alone
|
| You can look out at the skyline for some forgiveness
|
| When you invest in love, the same will be returned
|
| He has prided himself on a lifetime of spoken directness
|
| It took him forty years to hear the lesson learned
|
| Has he never lived at all?
|
| Never lived at all…
|
| Never lived at all
|
| The great American novel sits on top of Peter’s kitchen table
|
| 300 pages on a town he built inside of his head
|
| He signs the cover page, uncorks the bottle with the dusty label
|
| Pours his wife a glass, she says «Baby, bring the bottle to bed»
|
| At 6 AM he’s out fighting the cars on the freeway
|
| And fighting his manuscript, has he written his own downfall?
|
| But he’ll embrace rejection, he’ll kiss the seal of each envelope
|
| Better to live in hope than to never have lived at all
|
| To never live at all
|
| Never live at all |