With his 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
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In his counting house where nothing counts but more
|
|
And he thought he heard the echo of a penny-whistle band
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And the laughter from a distant caravan
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And the brightly painted line of circus wagons in the sand
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Fading through the door into summer
|
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With his travel logs of "maybe next year" places
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As a trade-in for a name upon the door
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And he pays for every year he cannot buy back with his tears
|
When he finds out there's been no one keeping score
|
|
-----------------
|
The Door Into Summer
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| Monkees |
