| I slow down purple avenues
|
| To march around in April shoes
|
| Weather vanes remind
|
| Of the summer times that I’ve left behind
|
| Money’s gone for Auld Lang Syne
|
| I spent on Eastern Standard Time
|
| Whatever happened to my roll
|
| September fell right through the hole
|
| All I’ve got is empty pockets now
|
| And why does August try so hard
|
| To hoist me on my own petard?
|
| I’ve learned one thing from loving her
|
| That an ounce of prevention’s worth a pound of cure
|
| And the shadows fall, but I cannot thread
|
| The tenor of the things you’ve said
|
| All that’s left is flesh and bone
|
| The lights are on, no one’s home
|
| All I’ve got is empty pockets now
|
| I spill myself another drink
|
| I count the whiskers in the sink
|
| The orchestra is blind
|
| But I’ve never been the worrying kind
|
| Subsequently and furthermore
|
| I’ll sleep right here on the draining board
|
| I will never be paroled
|
| I like to drink them while they’re cold
|
| And all I’ve got is empty pockets now |