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Don't you ever make the mistake of thinking of the past as the good old daysIt's a son of a bitch being young, and holding your youth like a loaded gunSeptembers come and they go. It seems the older I get, the less I knowAnd it seems the less I know, the easier it is to breatheOlder brother, oldest sonI was never any good at either oneMy father, and the truthDestroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys youNow 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 heartAnd now that the romance is dead, I've still got these songs ringing in my headAnd it keeps me awake and down, every time I'm leaving townOlder brother, oldest sonI was never any good at either oneMy father, and the truthDestroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys youOlder brother, oldest sonI was never any good at either oneMy father, and the truthDestroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys youMy father, and the truthDestroy you thing you love, son, before it destroys you Aus Songtexte Mania