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 on 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 laughs left 
‘Cause we laughed them all 
And we laughed them all 
In a very short time 

Time 
Is tapping on my forehead 
Hanging from my mirror 
Rattling the teacups 
And I wonder 
How long can I delay? 
We‘re just a habit 
Like Saccharin 

And I‘m habitually feelin‘ kinda blue 

But each time I try on 
The thought of leaving you 
I stop 
I stop and think it over

1967г.

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