At the end of the hallnThe slow light creeps innYour head is against the wallnAnd my feet are danglingnnWhen I think that I know something for surenI'm usually wrongnThere's nothing here to be careful ofnI'm just sick of it allnnSummer's comingnSpring is almost gonenI can feel the endingnBefore I start the songnIt's almost gonennI walk down your streetnAnd think about hernMy shoes are too tightnAnd my fingers burnnnWhen I get really sick of myselfnI go to sleepnI stack up the magazines in a neat pile by the doornThen I sleep some morennSummer's comingnSpring is almost gonenI can feel the endingnBefore I start the songnnI'll keep runningnGod knows for how longnI can feel it comingnIt's almost gone