All the young men cry, "we're so good a getting older
that they ask us why we're not afraid of getting colder."
oh, the young men die and the people shrug their shoulders
let them go...
I could find a hole
underneath the aisle
oh, my love would grow
with each time
you pass me by
Where the good men go
every street is paved with gold
but baby they don't let you bring
anything
that they ask us why we're not afraid of getting colder."
oh, the young men die and the people shrug their shoulders
let them go...
I could find a hole
underneath the aisle
oh, my love would grow
with each time
you pass me by
Where the good men go
every street is paved with gold
but baby they don't let you bring
anything