Scarborough Nights

When I lay in bed at night
And at last can rest my eyes,
I still can hear the humming,
Of the TV Lounge’s lights.
I still can feel the leather,
And the pleasant scent of fries.
And as I drift away,
I still recall the Scarborough Nights.

What a silly room it was,
But a place that we made ours.
We could bash upon the windows,
We could climb upon the poles.
That room there was the place
Where we could stop and smell the flowers,
Where we could talk to one another,
And escape the bitter cold.

What memories we crafted,
As strangers, then as friends.
With such loudness interrupting
All the clubs and groups that met.
As we lived our lives in freedom,
Never thinking it would end,
Care we never did,
Like how we never would forget.

Oh I remember in the morning,
With the sunlight peeking in,
How we would gather with our coffee
And hope the day would be benign.
How lucky we all were,
To meet there with our kin.
It was where I fell in love,
At least I thought so at the time.

And we would simply stay there,
While the Sun would climb the sky.
We then remained some more,
Until the Sun would say goodbye.
There never was a moment,
Where the words we said were dry,
Nor was there an instant,
Without a friend nearby.

We felt secure within our friendships,
Like a fossil cast in stone.
And we promised one another
That our bonds would always grow.
So tell me then, young strangers,
Why we now are all alone.
And despite assuring words,
Where did all my buddies go?

When I lay in bed,
And I consider Scarborough Nights,
I am rendered feeling empty
With numbness left inside.
These people I grew up with,
Sharing hugs and having fights,
Were supposed to be my brethren.
But I guess that was a lie.

And maybe I am stupid,
For the foresight that I lack,
But that feeling stays within me
And forces me to ask;
Who is next to go
Without ever glancing back?
Who within my present
Is condemned to be the past?

When I am frail and older,
Who will try to stay in touch?
Is there anyone important
Who shortly will be lost?
Do I have cause to even bother
Liking anyone too much?
If I do, and grow attached,
What will that attachment cost?

Que será será,
And I suppose it is alright.
If they have turned away,
Then some day I also might.
Though bitter, I’ll continue
Painting life as black and white.
But the blaring grey remains
As I remember Scarborough Nights.

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