| He went to Paris
|
| Looking for answers
|
| To questions that bothered him so He was impressive
|
| Young and aggressive
|
| Saving the world on his own
|
| Warm summer breezes
|
| And french wines and cheeses
|
| Put his ambitions at bay
|
| Summers and winters
|
| Scattered like splinters
|
| And four or five years slipped away
|
| He went to England
|
| Played the piano
|
| And married an actress named Kim
|
| They had a fine life
|
| She was a good wife
|
| And bore him a young son named Jim
|
| And all of the answers
|
| To all of the questions
|
| Locked in his attic one day
|
| He liked the quiet
|
| Clean country living
|
| And twenty more years slipped away
|
| Well, the war took his baby
|
| Bombs killed his lady
|
| And left him with only one eye
|
| His body was battered
|
| His whole world was shattered
|
| And all he could do was just cry
|
| While the tears were a' fallin'
|
| He was recallin'
|
| The answers he never found
|
| So he hopped on a freighter
|
| Skidded the ocean
|
| And left England without a sound
|
| Now he lives in the islands
|
| Fishes the pylons
|
| And drinks his green label each day
|
| He’s writing his memoirs
|
| And losing his hearing
|
| But he don’t care what most people say
|
| «Through eighty six years
|
| Of perpetual motion,»
|
| If he likes you, he’ll smile and he’ll say
|
| «Jim, some of it’s magic
|
| And some of it’s tragic
|
| But I had a good life all the way»
|
| He went to Paris
|
| Looking for answers
|
| To questions that bothered him so |