"Where has the time gone...it seems to fly so fast
One moment you're having fun, the next its come to pass
Days turn into yesteryear, old friends find their own way
Until the moment you leave...I wish that you would stay...
So here's to you, all our friends, surely we will meet again
Don't stay away too long this time
We'll raise a glass, maybe two
And we'll be thinkng of you
Until our paths cross again...maybe next time...
Let's laugh at the memories, and talk all afternoon
Let's remember the moments that leave us all too soon
We'll smile at the pictures still lingering in our minds
When you're reminiscing, then all you need is time...
Tracing faded photographs, a scrapbooks lonely charm
Pressed flowers and dreams we had, our fingerprint on time
The 1st moment we ever met, when your eyes met mine...
I remember the summers of Dandelion Wine..."
Somebody would go there often, stare straight into the sun until he could stare no more, then close his eyes and consider the burned spots, the fleeting scars left dancing on his warm eyelids; arranging, rearranging each fire and reflection until the pattern was clear. ...
You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first morning..
One moment you're having fun, the next its come to pass
Days turn into yesteryear, old friends find their own way
Until the moment you leave...I wish that you would stay...
So here's to you, all our friends, surely we will meet again
Don't stay away too long this time
We'll raise a glass, maybe two
And we'll be thinkng of you
Until our paths cross again...maybe next time...
Let's laugh at the memories, and talk all afternoon
Let's remember the moments that leave us all too soon
We'll smile at the pictures still lingering in our minds
When you're reminiscing, then all you need is time...
Tracing faded photographs, a scrapbooks lonely charm
Pressed flowers and dreams we had, our fingerprint on time
The 1st moment we ever met, when your eyes met mine...
I remember the summers of Dandelion Wine..."
Somebody would go there often, stare straight into the sun until he could stare no more, then close his eyes and consider the burned spots, the fleeting scars left dancing on his warm eyelids; arranging, rearranging each fire and reflection until the pattern was clear. ...
You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first morning..