Record Collector

im tired of sayingthat i wont get lost ever againwho knows, maybe i willand everywhere
I go there i'll bewith a rusted old rake in a pile of leavesoh my, truly dauntingchorus:but my blue eyes cannot seethat their real hue is probably greeni should keep records of these thingsand i'll know what yesterdays bringim not really surebut im starting to thinkthat i've been here beforewho knows, maybe i haveand everywhere i went there i waswith a choir of beesthey were all a buzzoh my, how amusingchrousbut one time, there was this one timewhen i swore
God, she spoke to meand she told me, oh yes she told meof all the wonders that she could bringand i saidwon't you, won't you fill me up with itwhy don't you fill me up with it,won't you fill me x3chrousi am always here with meand i'll know what yesterdays bring