Stories

Monday arrived exactly when she said she would
Sent a wide-eyed sun to find some signs of life inside my bed
Tuesday’s on fire
Pulled up the socks and watched the clock
and swore that she would never follow suit
I used to chase the hours,
hour upon hour
Craving merit, craving credit
wishing I was only (owning?) you
But suddenly I’m not so easily led
Let the winds blow right over your head
I’m in the mood for stories
So let the days grow old
Suddenly I’m not so easily led
Let the winds blow right over your head
I’m in the mood for stories
So let the days grow old
I’m a little English boy, Harry is my name
In cold or sunny weather my work is still the same
I’m civil and obliging to the passers-by
Who hurry to be cozy home, this is what I cry
Wednesday’s just an open book
But Thursday presses Friday
Presses Saturday’s pernicious lies
Suddenly I’m not so easily led
Let the winds blow right over your head
I’m in the mood for stories
Let the days grow old
Suddenly I’m not so easily led
Let the winds blow right over your head
I’m in the mood for stories
Let the days grow old
Let the days grow old
I’m in the mood for stories
Let the days grow old
Sunday’s child knew everything I hoped to know
Measures so unhurried
When others run about, kept moving on
Hour upon hour
Craving merit, craving credit
Wishing I was only (owning?) you
Hour upon hour
Craving merit, craving credit
Wishing I was only new (?)