The evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.

Whoever you pretend to be, you must face yourself eventually.

There's room in the world for one historical folk-rock singer to make a decent living, and I happen to be it.

She doesn't give you time for questions as she locks up your arms in hers. And you follow till your sense of direction completely disappears.

Looking so cool, his greed is hard to conceal, he's fresh out of law school, you gave him a license to steal.

On a morning from a Bogart movie, in a country where they turn back time. You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre, contemplating a crime. She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a watercolor in the rain. Don't bother asking for explanations, she'll just tell you that she came in the year of the cat.

The evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.