Why don't we stop fooling ourselves?
The game is over
Over, over
No good times
No bad times
There's no times at all
Just the New York Times
Sitting in the windowsill
Near the flowers
We might as well be apart
It hardly matters
We sleep separately
And drop a smile passing in the hall
But there's no laughts left
Cause we laughted them all
And we laughted them all
In a very short time
Time is tapping on my forehead
Handing from my mirror
Rattling the teacups
And I wonder how long can I delay
We've just a habit
Like saccharine
And I'm habitually feeling kind of blue
But each time I try on the thought of leaving you
I stop
I stop and think it over