| Jackson Browne |
| the papers lie there hopelessly |
| in a pile outside the door |
| I tried and tried, but I just can’t remember |
| what they’re for |
| the world outside is tugging |
| like a beggar at my sleeve |
| ah, that’s much too old a story to believe |
| and you know, that it’s taken it’s share of me |
| even though you take such good care of me |
| now you say morocco, and that makes me smile |
| I haven’t seen morocco for a long, long while |
| the dreams are rolling down |
| across the places in my mind |
| and I just had a taste of something fine |
| the future hides and the past just slides |
| england lies between |
| floating in a silver mist, so cold and so clean |
| california’s shading like some angry child will |
| who has asked for love and isn’t answered still |
| and you know that I’m looking back carefully |
| 'cause I know that there’s still something there for me |
| but you said morocco and it made me smile |
| and it hasn’t been that easy for a long, long while |
| looking back into your eyes |
| oh, I saw them really shine |
| and giving me a taste of something fine |
| something fine |
| now if you see morocco, oh I know you’ll go in style |
| I may not see morocco for a little while |
| but while you’re there I was hoping you |
| might keep it in your mind |
| to save me a taste of something fine |
| something fine |