Come next Sunday
Your Monday will be my Tuesday
Winter's nine o'clock becomes our four
Am I hoping that I can reflect?
Redirect upon the times that I cannot foresee to forget?
Really now, I just power through the wait
A wait that has been really aware just as of late
Trips to be are trips to know
Odd to see the morrow's sun snow
Under, way under, is eagerness to adore
Your chills will be my warmth
Come next Sunday
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