Like Stein and Toklas in a Paris park,
with memories of those wonderful years
slipping into the fog
resting at the edge, not falling in.
With memories of those wonderful years
watching the children play by the fountain
resting at the edge, not falling in
so innocent, so naive.
Watching the children play by the fountain
march around, march on, march forth
so innocent, so naive,
unaware of what’s to come.
March around, march on, march forth
like Stein and Toklas in a Paris park
unaware, unaware of what’s to come
slipping into the fog.
