It's a summer's day in Souther's park, when dogs dance under the shadow of a crow,
In tangled hair and worn corduroy, our lips collect the rain,
Beau typic smiles under cheap decals, it's Mary Magdalene in braids,
Holding hands, we're amateurs of the lifedance.
We carved our names in the wood,
We did everything the best that we could.
These are the souvenirs, collected through the years,
These are the souvenirs, the fruit that our hands yield.
Rock over the wires and back again,
Zealots of play in a likable illusion,
A whole generation is passed in the blur of romance.
We carved our names in the wood,
We did everything the best that we could.
And these are the souvenirs, collected through the years,
These are the souvenirs, the fruit that our hands yield.
These are the souvenirs, the fruit that our hands yield,
These are the souvenirs, collected through the years we lived here,
These are the souvenirs, the fruit that our hands yield.
These are the souvenirs, collected through the years,
These are the souvenirs, the fruit that our hands yield,
These are the souvenirs, collected through the years,
These are the souvenirs, the fruit that our hands yield.
