I traced your arms as you laid spread out on the Sunday paper
|
Looked like the crime scene of an angel ghost
|
I heard the gate clatter to on the elevator
|
I wrapped myself up in it like a cold beef roast
|
|
Fell asleep, was cooked medium and placed on a dining room table in Brooklyn
|
Before an older couple surrounded by family and friends so wonderful and kind
|
I flashed back to you giving dollars to homeless men down in the bowery
|
Not before they convinced you it was for sandwiches and not for wine
|
I just could never convince you baby
|
This was our time
|
This was our time
|
This was our time
|
|
Now your feeding me fabulous Chinese takeout on the dampened bed sheets
|
Our last supper so you might say
|
I woke up in a cold sweat and realized we'd never cooked one meal together
|
You always said, "Why bother?" with the cuisines of the world laid at our feet here everyday
|
|
Then I thought of our first date back in Nashville
|
We shared the pupu platter you enjoyed it with such gusto I took it for a sign
|
We would have many happy meals together in a warm dining room somewhere maybe even
|
Brooklyn
|
That was way back then, and I was just another guy with food on his mind
|
But this, baby this was our time
|
|
This was our time
|
This was our time
|
This was our time
|
What did you have in mind?
|
This was our time
|
|
-----------------
|
Our Time
|
| John Hiatt |
