In the month of fourteen, everything changed.
Then names from faces became, sadly, estranged.
One whom we all love has a part of her gone.
Not anything simple; not a leg or an arm.

Her memories stolen, her speech rearranged,
by a tumor that's growing on one side of her brain.
A stroke was the first clue that something was wrong.
In the month of Fourteen, all her words came out wrong.

The music may play and she may try to sing-
but the lyric is lost in the strain echoing.
I doubt whether her life will ever be the same.
Her husband is with her but she's forgotten his name.

The concert is scheduled for tonight.
I must cancel; there is no other choice.
I can’t step into those harsh spotlights
Now that I’ve lost my voice.

That golden throated baritone
Has left me, I’m afraid.
A vein has hemorrhaged in my throat
And threatens all I’ve gained.

It was the stress of all those gigs.
I never turned one down.
I thrilled to hear girls scream my name,
But my health has let me down.

Is it over?  I wonder
Do the doctors even have a clue?
Will I be able to perform again?
Is Frank Sinatra through?

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to **** it all away
But I remember everything
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liars chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
If I could start again
A million miles away
I will keep myself
I would find a way
Source: LyricFind

Sometimes, in dreams, Paul sees his band mate, John.
Of course, John Lennon hasn't aged a day.
Paul, himself, has felt the touch of time.
His skin is paper-thin; his hair gone grey.

Paul reaches for an instrument to play
but alas, his dream guitar hasn't any strings.
John provides a softly lyric line
so Paul must be content to hear him sing.

Paul wakes up from his pleasant dream
hoping to recall the words that he heard sung.
Somehow he cannot recall the lyrics;
It's not easy as Paul's no longer young.

Sometimes in dreams, we see beloved dead;
projections, perhaps, of our hopes and fears.
We imagine stringed instruments that gently weep
And, doing so, mock our bootless tears.

The unexamined life
passes quickly
like grains of sand
through the hourglass

Just as quickly
as the future
becomes the past or
so it seems

We slept last night on satin sheets.
Reluctantly we rise.
In air-conditioned luxury
we wipe the sleep from bloodshot eyes.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Upon exiting from the shower
we don our matching silken robes.
The Bloomberg totes our rising wealth
and tells of Donald's latest woes.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Eggs over easy and crusty french bread,
consumed with dark roast coffee seems
a perfect way to start our day.
We live better than Kings and Queens.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

We dress in fine designer clothes.
You should see the shoes she wears.
They cost two thousand dollars each
and she owns two dozen pairs.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Below our penthouse in the sky,
anger simmers on City streets.
An angel with a flaming sword
approaches even as we speak.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
    —Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
    Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
  Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
      The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
  Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
  And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.