Confetti floats away
like dead leaves in the wagon's wake.
There were parties here in my honor
until you sent me away.
Now silver moons belong to you.
Passing the baton
from the old mare to the fawn
it was out of line but it was fun
and didn't you love the part
right before the dawn?
But now silver moons belong to you.
I'm off to the ballet
and to practice all these ancient ways.
Tell the new kids where I hid the wine,
tell their fathers that I'm on my way, and say
"Hey, maybe these days are over now..."
And I loved it better than anyone else, you know.
I believe in growing old with grace.
I believe she only loved my face.
I believe I acted like a child
making faces at acquired tastes.
And now silver moons belong to you...
Gone are the days bonfires make me think of you. Looks like the prophecy came true:
You are a fallen tree. He is a fallen tree.
"How old are you?" "No, how old are you?"
Under all the folds of the dresses that you wear
there's an ocean and a tide and a riot in the square.
Over are the days that the congas made your hair
sway around to the cadence of your 'hey-oh-hey-oh' cheer...
Under all the folds of the dresses that you wear
you sway around to the cadence of your voice when you sang there.
