Dean Wareham - The Past Is Our Plaything

I have nothing to say to the mayor of L.A.
At seven o’clock in the morn
I have no retort for the king of New York
It's late and I feel so forlorn
Tonight I am playing my three-thirty-five
While gazing at your photograph
We’re living inside a beautiful dream
A winter where memory sleeps
The past is our plaything, she cannot talk back
We’re making it up as we go
The dandy is fashioned to crash and to burn
As blue turns to grey

I challenged myself to a duel yesterday
I carried a lock of your hair
I insulted myself, I counted to twelve
We fired three shots in the air
It’s a gay parade, she’s above my pay grade
I feel like I’ve taken first prize
We're living inside a beautiful dream
A winter where memory sleeps
The planes have been grounded, there’s nowhere to go
The city we loved is now lost
The towers have fallen, my brother is gone
As blue turns to grey

Written by:
Dean Wareham

Publisher:
Lyrics © Songtrust Ave

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