This is the way I see it:
You're only here for a shot time.
The will of windshields will win your way,
despite disconnections and digits and dimes.
Not much going on?
Well, so be it.
Just pull songs from last years favorite bars.
Do they get played on Avenue A,
or with adolescent tears that stain parent's new cars?
Profane fames and phantom paints
disappear with rains down city drains,
but like Indian summers that hold on to their suns,
only the best days remain.
One month short of a brand new spring,
just close your eyes and let gravity do it's thing.
"Those were the days," you teased,
but none will stand up to these.