he set out with a backpack
his pockets were full but his heart was so heavy
and all these material things can be deadly if
no one is there who will share when your seventy-one
on his way back from france
he rolled up the painting
his pockets were full but his heart was so heavy
and all these material things can be deadly if
no one is there who will share when your seventy-one
he woke up in the morning
she left with the portrait
his pockets aren't full and his heart is still empty
and falling in love it can be just as deadly
and no one is there who will care when he's seventy-one