Winds howled, rains spit down
All these nights playing precious games
Cheap hotel in some seaboard town
Closed down for the winter and whispered names

Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
Snap our heels half-heartedly
And [bad word] you know better than me
That this is not love?

No, this is not love
This is not love

Empty [bad word] postcards freeze
Sunburst images of summers gone
Think I see us in these promenade days
Before we learned October's song

Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree
Curious, head bent to see
And [bad word] you know better than me
That this is not love?

Down to the sad south, smokey plumes
Mark that real world city home
Broken spells and silent gloom
Ooze from that concrete [bad word]