Your heart is always almost beating
Along with windy frozen tunes
But you say you've laughed enough
Your closet's stuffed
with last year's blues
But you know by summertime
your suicide's just last year's news
To. to. to. to
What will we find inside of your room?
Notes in the margins
Records always spinning
Clues you know you want all to know
Your little soul grew old too soon
And surprises lost their thrill
Vodka and pills and the Marquee Moon
To, to, to, to