Once upon a time, this place
Was a desert of wind, a deserted race
But that’s just dust on a forgotten book,
Now, this place, is hardly the same.
Water flows, so does champagne
There is hardly an ugly voice in the crowd
That could sing you to tears, make you cry out loud
All I can hear, is delicate fingers
Playing the piano, wearing a perfume that lingers
All I can see is a flood of gold
And I crave and crave for my deserted old.