Well, there's fool's gold stacked up all around him, from a killing in the market on the war,
The children left King Midas there as they found him, in his counting house where nothing counts but more.
And he thought he heard the echoes of a penny whistle band,
And the laughter from a distant caravan,
And the brightly painted lines of circus wagons in the sand,
Fading through the door into summer.
As we travel on to "maybe next year" places,
As we trade-in for a name upon the door,
And he pays for every years he cannot buy back with his tears and he finds out there's been no one keeping score.
And he thought he heard the echoes of a penny whistle band,
And the laughter from a distant caravan,
And the brightly painted lines of circus wagons in the sand,
Fading through the door into summer.
And he thought he heard the echoes of a penny whistle band,
And the laughter from a distant caravan,
And the brightly painted lines of circus wagons in the sand,
Fading through the door into summer.
Fading through the door into summer,
Fading through the door into summer,
Fading through the door into summer.
