| The more that I see, the less I know
|
| And this time, that’s not what I need
|
| I waver between go on or just let go
|
| But holding on is what I’m used to
|
| When I’m in an undertow
|
| Cote du Rhone or the airport courtesy phone
|
| Tell the fortune you’re building
|
| Why did you build out of cards
|
| What I should have built of stone
|
| But now my plane’s at the gate and boarding
|
| And I can’t do this thing alone unless there’s
|
| No more Amsterdam
|
| You made me what I am
|
| And I can’t pay in kind
|
| When something precious always ends up left behind
|
| Old ways lift and pull
|
| Whole days left half full
|
| Claimed I didn’t mind
|
| Later and when it’s all done
|
| When you’ve had your fun
|
| And the smoke lingers on
|
| Burning off beside the paper crown
|
| I put it back on and see how it goes
|
| And wear the lie
|
| As if it had the power to carry you home
|
| And there you are in the hotel bar
|
| Gone holding diamonds you traded
|
| Watching the friend who
|
| Once was a paragon
|
| Coming undone
|
| But now my plane’sat the gate and boarding
|
| And once I hear those engines roaring
|
| There’ll be no more Amsterdam
|
| You made me what I am
|
| And I can’t pay in kind
|
| When something precious always ends up left behind
|
| Old ways lift and pull (and I can’t stay honest)
|
| Whole days left half full
|
| I claimed I didn’t mind
|
| The more that I see, the less I know |