Don't you ever make the mistake of thinking of the past as the good old days It's a son of a bitch being young, and holding your youth like a loaded gun Septembers come and they go. It seems the older I get, the less I know And it seems the less I know, the easier it is to breathe
Older brother, oldest son I was never any good at either one My father, and the truth Destroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you
Now I'm twenty-five years old. No money, no plan, no street of gold. It was arrogant to think from the start you were the only backyard Dylan with a folksinger's heart And now that the romance is dead, I've still got these songs ringing in my head And it keeps me awake and down, every time I'm leaving town
Older brother, oldest son I was never any good at either one My father, and the truth Destroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you
Older brother, oldest son I was never any good at either one My father, and the truth Destroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you My father, and the truth Destroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you