So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty,
though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true.
There'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams, and plenty
before the last revolving year is through.
And the seasons they go round and round.
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on the carousel of time.
We can't return we can only look
behind from where we came
and go round and round and round
in the circle game.