My friend had a dream that she was shooting morphine in her veins, nIt came up through her mouth and everything was blue and red.nWell my friends drink alone, but at least they’ve had someone love them once or twice,nThe same for me cannot be said.nnAnd how I miss those ideal worlds,nhow I miss those ideal worlds, nOh how I miss those ideal worlds of sexless empathy.nHow I miss those ideal worlds, nhow I miss those ideal worlds,nOh how I miss those worlds that used to live inside of me.nnnSee that boy, he’s walking home, he’s barely 21,nWith his poems in his shaking hands, his back turned to the sun.nBut he is not the picture of heartache or suffering,nIn fact he might feel pretty lucky if he heard the song that old man sings.nSaying sorrows only pretty when you’ve got no lines in your face,nSorrows only cute when your composure needs no grace.nBut boy you’ll be a man someday, oh girl you’ll be a womannAnd you will understand someday, I bet you wish you wouldn’t. nnBut how I miss those ideal worlds,nhow I miss those ideal worlds,nOh how I miss those ideal worlds, like pages torn from hymnals.nHow I miss those ideal worlds where tree hearts beat in boys and girls,nBefore time dwindled down in me like gasoline in thimbles.nnnThere’s a girl inside that airport, oh she’s almost 25,nShe’s been living on a tour bus, selling songs to stay alive.nAnd she’s talking on a pay phone to a man she used to idolize,nBack when she was younger and the flesh was smooth beneath his eyes.nHe’s saying tragedy, adversity, they don’t just stop at 30,nBut it might not come prepackaged, kid, you might get your hands dirty.nBut remember you were just 18 when you came to my concert,nFrom the front row you stared up at me and thought ‘good God, I want that.’nnAnd how I miss those ideal worlds,nhow I miss those ideal worlds, nOh how I miss those ideal worlds I made up in my bedroom.nHow I miss those ideal worlds,nhow I miss those ideal worlds,nOh how I miss those ideal worlds, the ones I used to sell you. nnnLast night I dreamt that I was walking on a lake shore,nThe willow trees had human hearts, I touched each one to make sure.nAnd a boy appeared before me, he was wearing striped pajamasnA little pale and sickly, oh, but such a lovely canvas.nHe said I’m 'Matty From The Midwest but I’ve gone by lots of names.nWe were friends when we were younger, we would play such splendid games.'nAnd so I dressed him all in forest finery,nWith a crown of willow branches and a robe of woven ivy leaves. nAnd placed him on his tree trunk throne for everyone to see,nBut when I went to hold his hand, he just turned into me.nnAnd sorrows only pretty until time has found your body, kid.nSorrows only dear until your hair has gone to gray.nThen it all just turns to loneliness, and that’s what terrifies me.nHow am I supposed to deal with this when chance and beauty run away?nnAnd how I miss those ideal worlds,nhow I miss those ideal worlds,nOh how I miss those ideal worlds that I used to believe in.nHow I miss those ideal worlds,nhow I miss those ideal worlds,nOh how I miss those worlds as one by one I watched them leaving.nnDecember, December, December, they call as each one fades to wind.nDecember, December, December they call as each one fades to wind.n