Don't you ever make the mistake of thinking of the past 
as the good old days
It's a son of a bitch being young, and holding your 
youth like a loaded gun
Septembers come and they go. It seems the older I get, 
the less I know
And it seems the less I know, the easier it is to 
breathe
Older brother, oldest son
I was never any good at either one
My father, and the truth
Destroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you
Now I'm twenty-five years old. No money, no plan, no 
street of gold.
It was arrogant to think from the start you were the 
only backyard Dylan with a folksinger's heart
And now that the romance is dead, I've still got these 
songs ringing in my head
And it keeps me awake and down, every time I'm leaving 
town
Older brother, oldest son
I was never any good at either one
My father, and the truth
Destroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you
Older brother, oldest son
I was never any good at either one
My father, and the truth
Destroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you
My father, and the truth
Destroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you