I remember those days - when the jazz band
would play those upbeat songs, and we would
talk about dancing, but never actually dance.
(I wish we'd danced.)
You'd always buy the drinks; you never could
bear to see a lady pay. You'd make yours a double
and mine a half - always the same. We'd plan to try
those adventurous cocktails, but we never got round to it.
(I wish we had.)
In the end, when only the drunks and loners
were left, we'd shuffle home. Your stop was first,
and we'd always hesitate as if I might stay.
But every time, we'd look at the stars and delcare it
late - too late - and so I left.
(I wish I'd stayed.)
Now the jazz band has packed up
and the drinks have run out. One by one,
the stars have burned themselves dry.
(But is it too late?)
Let's make our own music;
mix our own drinks;
be our own stars.