( I'm Gonna Be ) Five Hundred Miles

Remember the song by Proclaimers, well I could write
one hundred lines like someone else we all know,
I prefer a shorter treatise, delivered with some ease,
a nice day, no nonsense, just sitting under the trees.

Your figure rose and fell on a sunny day, so who
could tell what may transpire with eternal desire;
then we played golf, the ball rebounded from a tree,
it didn't matter, we would make love it seemed to me.

I drag up the old lines, her kisses tasted of bread
and butter, if only I could think of the words to utter; 
it was 1969 when the Eagles were in Hotel California,
waking up, you had to be there - you weren't I betcha.

I finish reading the lines, some ignore all of the signs,
it's the intransigence, stubborness that becomes a bind.