My Life Is a Cliché
When I recall the spilt milk of my youth I want to cry
regardless of all the water that has passed under the bridge.
On quiet nights I often find myself looking back across those bridges
that I burned so long ago and still I see all my misserable yesterdays
like so many wind blown leaves swirled into a great pile on the ground.
Now even bushel baskets full of yesterdays won't buy me one more day.
But peering ahead over the distant fence where the grass is much greener
I am seeing all my tomorrows lined up neatly in a row.
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