The child, being close to the floor, sees the dust gather up, more and more. The cracks in the wall grow, as children grow tall till they leave; dust thrown up; closing door.
A long time ago, I would pray I could make the folk dance when I'd play But then February's news Bought a fresh wave of blues The music had died on that day
So bye-bye, Miss American Pie, The levee I drove to was dry. Good ol' boys in their folly Raised whiskies to Holly 'This will be the day they I die.'