The boy in the painting
Stands in a field
With his dog and a knapsack
On the end of a stick.
His eyes are cold blue,
As blue as the sky.
He stares back across the meadow
At the house by the creek.
I'm running away from the grown-ups.
They say that love's not forever.
But my love is, my love is,
My love is, my love is.
Memories of the midway
The rides at the fair,
Three seats on the bus
For the twilight trip home,
Stories at bedside,
A warm summer night,
Two kisses, a song
And the t.v. on low.
Now I'm running away from the grown-ups.
They say that love's not forever.
But my love is, my love is,
My love is, yes, my love is.
And my love is, my love is,
My love is, my love is.
The boy in the painting
Stands in a field
With his dog and a knapsack
On the end of a stick.
His eyes are cold blue,
Blue as the sky.
He stares back across the meadow
At the house by the creek.
