They call me crybaby
'cause I cry all the time
Can't hold back my tears
When I'm not feeling fine
Give me my milk
I'm raising my voice
Don't you wanna play
With me and my toys?
I hurt my head
Won't you come running?
I'll scream even louder
When I don't hear you coming
Gently caress me
And hold my hand
Won't you follow me
Into playland?
Do what I want
Or my doll's gonna die
You don't want to make
Your babygirl cry
Days of your youth are long gone, yet some things take us back . . .
Memories impressed forever like leaves in a book,
In our mind's silent track.
A cottage was our home for a week, when our parents got the time . . .
It was another world which opened for us,
As we got away from the city's bustle and grime.
We slept upstairs; the attic was warm, as so was the woodburning stove . . .
Breakfast was pancakes, eggs, and sausage,
Prepared with the salt of our parents' love.
The rooms were few but airy, outside was where we wanted to be . . .
For this was our special playland place,
Amidst the trees, birds, and humming bees.
The lake, the sand, the pier so old; a swim in the water's deep blue . . .
Remembering the badminton and volleyball games,
And who tried to outscore who.
Having to walk back on the dark and lonely road at night . . .
From the fish fry, in our festive summer shorts,
Making our way to the cottage, by the beam of an old flashlight.
Those days of youth were filled with fun; carefree days of love and rhyme . . .
Though we are young no longer, we keep treasured memories,
Only in Salem Time.
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