Three-Four Poem by Neil Young

In three-four time, I count each crotchet beat
And watch your bloodshot sun go down.

I hear Budd's three note motif, rising
Only to repeat; thin whistling notes

At first, and then a shift to warmth;
Each chord comes and goes, but always goes

And leaves us cold, eventually.
Sky darkens like an eyelid closing.

The river's scent, this city's dulling throb,
Evapourate with my imagination.

Romantic is a word I will not use;
Not now, never again, and yet

I stand here, still remembering,
Believe in lies, the trick we think is love;

Ignorance only science can erase.
Duped or doped, I am high on false emotion.

We have no choice but to trip and fall…
One two three… one two three… one two…

The sun dips waltzing to the end of Time.
I'll still pretend you loved me.