| Whenever I get to feel this way,
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| try to find new words to say,
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| I think about the bad old days
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| we used to know.
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| Nights of winter turn me cold --
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| fears of dying, getting old.
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| We ran the race and the race was won
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| by running slowly.
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| Could be soon we’ll cease to sound,
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| slowly upstairs, faster down.
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| Then to revisit stony grounds,
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| we used to know.
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| Remembering mornings, shillings spent,
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| made no sense to leave the bed.
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| The bad old days they came and went
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| giving way to fruitful years.
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| Saving up the birds in hand
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| while in the bush the others land.
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| Take what we can before the man
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| says it’s time to go.
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| Each to his own way I’ll go mine.
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| Best of luck in what you find.
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| But for your own sake remember times
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| we used to know. |