Caught in the locked groove of this long season.
These hours motions circle, still repeating.
The beat moves on itself.
The beat moves on itself.
Every day my love.
Crazy crazy days are gone
when I come home
and we're finally alone.
And I'm caught in your arms safe from a morning.
No one walks out on the tightrope today my love.
The beat moves on itself.
The beat moves on itself.
Every day my love.
Crazy crazy days are gone
when I come home.
Crazy crazy days are gone
when I come home.
We awoke at the edge of a summer.
New days began to stretch their legs
and the tempo's changing the compliancy(?).
The needle finds the groove to free us tonight.
We awoke on the edge of this winter.
The ice melts off and flows in like a song.
The record plays but the needles old.
It lets the player take control.
Move the speakers how they're told.
To make us march for something more.
Music is a sedative
and you put out what you put in.
A strong comment here is specific: the phrase you keep hearing, the mood you come back for, or the reason this song stays in rotation.
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