| Winds howled. |
| Rains spit down.
|
| All these nights playing precious games.
|
| Cheap hotel in some seaboard town
|
| Closed down for the winter and whispered names.
|
| Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
|
| Snap our heels half-heartedly
|
| And how come you know better than me That this is not love.
|
| No, this is not love.
|
| Empty drugstore postcards freeze
|
| Sunburst images of summers gone.
|
| Think I see us in these promenade days
|
| Before we learned October’s song.
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| Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree;
|
| Curious, head-bent to see.
|
| How come you know better than me That this is not love.
|
| Down to the sad south, smokey plumes
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| Mark that real world city home.
|
| Broken spells and silent gloom
|
| Ooze from that concrete honeycomb.
|
| Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
|
| Snapped our heels half-heartedly
|
| And how come you know better than me That this is not love. |