Those were the days,
When spring time was everyday,
When every morning was the smell of fresh cut flowers and dew,
When clouds lolled lazy in your eyes
And song birds burst forth like laughter in the sky.

Then you'd called me Peaches,
Or sometimes Peaches and Cream,
And though you used the term sparingly
I could hear the gold in your voice,
Or see the pink in your cheeks,
Back in those pink days.

It was yours, all yours,
And no one else's.