|
Before the bitching and the bore |
|
The end of the cold war |
|
The principles they were apparent |
|
The bucket beside the door |
|
The shoulder carries more |
|
Than the sum of all our parts together |
|
It's extraneous, aware |
|
Did you say to us, I don't care |
|
There's dust on my particulars |
|
Of that you can be certain |
|
It's times like these when I'm alone |
|
I miss the iron curtain |
|
Oh 65 |
|
Oh 65 |
|
Now the trouble with hanging out |
|
Is the frequency of doubt |
|
As it enters in the new equation |
|
In the circus of the stars |
|
There's the likelihood that ours |
|
Is just a cheaper form of neurosis |
|
It's extraneous, aware |
|
Did you say to us, I don't care |
|
There's dust on my particulars |
|
Of that you can be certain |
|
It's times like these when I'm alone |
|
I miss the iron curtain |
|
The good things they proceed to rot |
|
The uselessness of smoking pot |
|
When you think of things |
|
You haven't got to say |
|
Oh 65 |
|
Oh 65 |
|
Oh 65 |
|
Oh 65 |
