E' poi vero che alla fine ai propri idoli si perdona qualsiasi cosa, ma brutti ceffi mettono in giro scalette preoccupanti, e se giovedì non potremo cantare almeno uno dei seguenti ritornelli, un briciolo di delusione sarà difficile da nascondere:

You want to cut me off because I took too much, but don’t leave me alone. Take off your scarves, your winter coat. The night’s too cold.

But I’ll gather up my men and try to sail on it again, and we’ll walk and quietly talk all through the country of your skin, made up of pieces of the places that you’ve dreamed and that you’ve been. We will sleep outside in tents upon this unfamiliar land, and in the morning we’ll awake, as a foreign dawning breaks, my men and I we will awake and try again.

But don’t lose me now, don’t lose me now. Though I know that I’m not useful anyhow, just let me stick around while I tell you, like before, you should say his name the way that he said yours. But you don't want to say his name anymore. Oh, Cynda Moore.

It’s their final duty to see right through me. I tell them “twelve hours until the dawn, but we’ve got to hold on. Hold on to me, because we’ll be running down to the water this morning.” Well, nobody waits for you to believe in ghosts, lit by moonlight or dawning, or in this picture of you and me.