“What a weird and stubborn summer this is.”
I consider this. Should we talk about the weather?
The seasons come and go, my dear, they have no say in things, it’s we who are the stubborn. And yes, you are, a little. Weird. A weird, sweet mystery, a little less each year.
He says I know him and I think I will, one day. One day when we’re old and grey.
When we settle down to be.
He says: “Sing ‘la la la’, ’cause the mad thing that’s life goes on.”
So I twist my rusty tongue around the words and sing for him. Allegro molto agitato.
“La la la.”