Lyrics
All the young men cry
"We're so good at getting older
That they ask us why we're not afraid
Of getting colder"
Oh, the young men die
And the people shrug their shoulders
Let them go
I could find a hole
Underneath the aisle
Oh, my love would grow
With each time you pass me by
Where the good men go
Every street is paved with gold
But baby they don't let you bring anything