I grow old, I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled, says Elliott I grow old, I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled, says Elliott
Days keep growing short, nights too Let us go then, you and I And try to unlearn, says Elliott He seeks for return and burns ancient love letters
Let us go then you and I and lie by marble stone, says Elliott And put a record on the gramophone Lie down dear, on the weed Don’t weep dear Gaily clad
Sadness is a radical quantity, says Elliott Sadness is a long brown ribbon, says he Sadness is beautiful
I grow old, I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled, says Elliott I grow old, I shall wear my trousers rolled, says Elliott