I woke up on the wrong side
of the bed.
I washed my face, shook yesterday
out of my head, and I
opened up my curtains, thought
"what's so great about a blue sky
when it could never match the beauty
that I found in your eyes?"

But I hope you won't remember
how I was at the end, and if
I could go back now,
I'd do it all again
with much more grace and wisdom,
with a tender heart this time,
and I'd pray that'd be enough
to keep you by my side.

I woke up in another stranger's bed.
I looked at her and hated
that all her hair was red, then I
stepped into the city, thought
"*******, I hope it rains -
let the water all run over me
and wash away my pain."

I hope you can remember
how we were at the start, and if
I could go back now
I'd give you my whole heart
and trust you just to keep it.
I'd never be afraid.
Then we might be together
and you'd be here today.

The elixir was mixed.
The potion had been poured.
The candles were all burning.
Over the Book of Spells, I’d pored.
I handed you the goblet--
my commandment you ignored.
I intoned the incantation--
you sat and just looked bored.
I looked into the crystal ball
and told you of your fortune.
You disagreed—but how is this?
Of the two of us there’s only one
who is the sorceress.
Why did I paint the pentagram
and summon all the spirits?
I’ll have you know I’ll still be charging
my fee for all your visits.

By the time I got to Woodstock, I was pushing Sixty-five.
I was qualified for Medicare when I finally arrived.
All the famous bands that played there, by and large, they are no more.
You can hear them still on vinyl; just not at the record store.
It was mud and drunken nakedness in the summer of sixty-nine.
There were ******-active drugs too if you were so inclined.
All the gorgeous girls who made that scene back in Love’s own summer,
Now use Clairol to hide the gray and are somebody’s Grandmother.
And what about the tall lean dudes who lusted for them then?
They now rely on small blue pills to get it up again.
Imagine standing on that stage staring out at the tie-dyed throng
as Janice Joplin poured her heart and soul out in a song.
I hear Hendrix was electric even as the skies did pour.
And Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were up for an encore.
Lennon couldn’t make it and Jethro Tull declined.
Joan Baez was magical; Joni Mitchell would have cried.
They are but ghostly echoes now, playing to an empty field.
We were all once young and beautiful, and Love was true and real.
Still, Time is a heartless arrow, relentless now as then.
I only fooled myself to think I could go back again.