People meet. They make friends. They make love. They part ways.
So much done in the name of a myth: perfect days.
Most days, we mark time, make small talk, spread rumors.
I always respond, with poet's wordplay or cheap humor.
I smile my way through, and laugh when it's done.
I might sometimes complain, when it seems like more fun,
But there's one thing I don't do, or think anyone does:
Really live days like they're sent from above.
There are times and things we do that make us younger for a minute,
But the moment's never quite pure. We worry while we're in it.
You might forget something, or look fat in your pants.
What if all the wrong people come ask me to dance?
When we worry over things we should be thankful for.
Then the comedown from the moment leaves us older than before.
So much done in the name of a myth: perfect days.
Most days, we mark time, make small talk, spread rumors.
I always respond, with poet's wordplay or cheap humor.
I smile my way through, and laugh when it's done.
I might sometimes complain, when it seems like more fun,
But there's one thing I don't do, or think anyone does:
Really live days like they're sent from above.
There are times and things we do that make us younger for a minute,
But the moment's never quite pure. We worry while we're in it.
You might forget something, or look fat in your pants.
What if all the wrong people come ask me to dance?
When we worry over things we should be thankful for.
Then the comedown from the moment leaves us older than before.
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