| I come from Tin Pan Valley and I’m moving right along |
| I live on former glory, so long ago and gone |
| I’m turning down the talk shows, the humor and the couch |
| I’m moving up to higher ground, I’ve found a new way out |
| There’s parasols and barbeque’s and loungers by the pool |
| The late night conversations filled with 20th century cool |
| My peers may flirt with cabaret, some fake the rebel yell |
| Me, I’m moving up to higher ground, I must escape this hell |
| Let me suspend my thirst for knowledge in your powder, sweat and sighs |
| A grudge of Christian women, a stain of spotless wives |
| A perfect destination inside a perfect world |
| I take the bottle to the baby, you take the hammer to the pearl |
| Like this |
| Oh like this |
| Like this |
| Oh like this |
| Every day’s like Sunday, down here on memory lane |
| Salad days and no good ways can drive me quite insane |
| A cocktail clouded troubadour attempts to speak in tongues |
| He’s said, ‽Enough, I’m through the door I’m moving right along |
| Along, along, along, along†|
| Like this |
| Oh like this |
| Like this |
| Oh like this |
| Oh like this |
| Like this |