1234567890 Why don't we stop fooling ourselves?
The game is over, over, over.
No good times, no bad times
No times at all, just the New York Times.
Sitting in the windowsill
Near the flowers.
We might as well be apart
It hardly matters, we sleep separately.
And drop a smile passing in the hall.
But there's no laughts left, 'cause we laughted them all
And we laughted them all in a very short time.
Time is tapping on my forehead
Handing from my mirror
Rattling the teacups.
And I wonder how long can I delay
We've just a habit, like saccharine
And I'm habitually feelin' kind of blue.
But each time I try on the thought of leaving you.
I stop, I stop and think it over.
1234567890
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