I was innocent, I was young the day I wrote that song
that I meant and which you said was nice.
We had no cause to hit the end of the block
’cause Chinese food again was good enough.
Hundreds of days went on and on like that.
I don’t remember much.
I think I died about a thousand times.
I was innocent, I was young the night I found it,
the letter from her on your dresser.
I wasn’t pleased but I believed, and it was fine.
But the next day at the springs
my shake was mildly-flavored water and suddenly
swimming wasn’t helping the human race.
And the grey of the ground cursed me, I think.
It’s a kind of sad that doesn’t affect me much,
never comes up in conversation;
the avoidance of that innocence and youth
but it’s for good reason,