Every time we
say goodbye,
I die
a little.
And every time we say goodbye,
I wonder why a little.
Why the gods above me,
who must be in the know,
think so little,
so little of me,
that
they'd allow you to go.
When you're near,
there's such an air of spring about it.
And
I can hear a lark somewhere
begin to sing about it.
And oh, there's no love song, no
song finer,
but how strange the change from major to minor.
Every time we say goodbye,
