Time marches onward,
turn the hands forward,
never to rewind
with the present I shall rebind;
so once more I take up the pen
never paying mind or wondering when
my time should ever come
for I’m marching to the beat of my own drum,
with a new and burning zeal
and nerves composed of steel,
that I can muster at the least,
for my heart is back in the East.
turn the hands forward,
never to rewind
with the present I shall rebind;
so once more I take up the pen
never paying mind or wondering when
my time should ever come
for I’m marching to the beat of my own drum,
with a new and burning zeal
and nerves composed of steel,
that I can muster at the least,
for my heart is back in the East.
Time marches onward,
turn the hands forward,
never to rewind
with the present I shall rebind;
so once more I take up the pen
never paying mind or wondering when
my time should ever come
for I’m marching to the beat of my own drum,
with a new and burning zeal
and nerves composed of steel,
that I can muster at the least,
for my heart is back in the East.
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