Whenever I get to feel this way
try to find new words to say,
I think about the bad old days
we used to know.
Nights of winter turn me cold
fears of dying, getting old
we ran the race and the race was run
by running slowly.
Could be soon we'll cease to sound,
slowly upstairs, faster down
then to revisit stony ground
we used to know.
Remembering mornings, shillings spent
made no sense to leave the bed.
The bad old days, they came and went
giving way to fruitful years.
Saving up the birds in hand,
while in the bush, the others land.
Take what we can before the man
says it's time to go.
Each to his own way; I'll go mine.
Best of luck with what you find
But, for your own sake remember times
we used to know.