Winds howled. Rains spit down.
|
All these nights playing precious games.
|
Cheap hotel in some seaboard town
|
closed down for the winter and whispered names.
|
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
|
snap our heels half-heartedly
|
and how come you know better than me
|
that this is not love.
|
No, this is not love.
|
|
Empty drugstore postcards freeze
|
sunburst images of summers gone.
|
Think I see us in these promenade days
|
before we learned October's song.
|
Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree;
|
curious, head bent to see.
|
And how come you know better than me
|
that this is not love.
|
|
Down to the sad south, smokey plumes
|
mark that real world city home.
|
Broken spells and silent gloom
|
ooze from that concrete honeycomb.
|
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
|
snapped our heels half-heartedly
|
and how come you know better than me
|
that this is not love.
|
|
-----------------
|
This Is Not Love
|
| Jethro Tull |
