Edit suite

Edit Suite

October winds are blowing, the trees have lost their gold,
Winter’s grip is tightening and I feel it getting cold.

Flocks of crows are gathering, black against the grey sky,
Somehow it makes me lonely, like the Winter in your eye,
The Winter in your eye.

I see you in your workshop, fit a new blade to your knife,
To ensure that there’s no ragged edge when you cut me from your life,
You cut me from your life.

I can smell the bubbling pot of glue; your own special recipe,
That you’ll use to paste me in your your book that no-one else can see,
No-one else can see.

Ripping, slicing, like a surgeon with a knife.
Clipping and splicing, you cut me from your life.
You cut me from your life.

A new page for your scrap-book; you’ve kept it since your youth,
And filled the pages faithfully with your version of the truth,
Your version of the truth.

You splice and cut and edit everything that’s gone before.
How much of us is lying there on the cutting room’s cold floor?
On the cutting room floor.

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