(*) Patrick Watson
The lost were playing in the yard
Giving goosebumps to all the Sunday summer treesOur hands were tangled in the weedsMoving so softly nobody can see
Against your morning skinWell it's shy like two young lovers walking byThere's a soft, strange kind of oddGiving company to all the lonely hearts
There's a hundred cigarettes on the groundAnd our clothes are still hanging aroundAnd it's nice to be ugly in each other's armsSo we can grow over all the things we were before
