By Anne Mironchik & Mark Goldblat © Knuckleball Publishing Co.
| V.1 |
Slid
that pack right off of my back, Pulled out the New York Times, Breathed the stench on our old park bench, As my world began to unwind Across my chest civil unrest, Heartbreaking homicide, The social page mocked my age, Sports kidnapped my pride. |
||
|
CH |
[Who,
what, when, where, why] There just ain't no good news, [Who, what, when, where, why] I've searched each page for a clue Since you said good bye You'd think I'd have a whole new set of views, But all I got's these New York Times Blues |
||
| V.2 |
Fingers
turn the pages burn Smoke curls in my eyes A mugger flees, scrapes my knees My blood pressure's way too high Fierce attack behind my back Scandals rip my gut Don't look twice at the Dow Jones price NASDAQ kicked my butt |
||
| CH |
Repeat |
||
| BR |
Every
Sunday I was here with you Now each week I don't know what to do To try and get over you |
||
| V.3 | This
Sunday ache I just can't shake No matter how I try So, find me a paper that's fit to print And a bench to occupy And here I'll stay till I'm swept away, Rolling in my grave Write me this obit: "Her heart was clipped and saved" |
||
| CH | Repeat |