such easy choices made by those still young
who do not see the meanings of each hour
but hope to be there when the green woods flower
and other words come flying off the tongue
these are triumphs all of which we've sung
before old time could our weak hearts devour
in slender hope that's we'd still have the power
that from our last reserve of pain was wrung
no other option left but truth to tell
we'd go the same dull route if given chance
to start all over and redo the game
it's not as if we play it all that well
but more that we just know only this dance
and are afraid to show too bright a flame