Into It. Over It. Young Lungs
I've conjured up a plan, as a sentimental man, to destroy our things in style. It involves our belongings in a pile, some lighter fluid and a smile, and some matches with "Chicago" inscribed on every stick. Strangers could see the flames for miles -- from any highway or any hilltop -- and we'd pass out as the smoke billows and spills into our young lungs. With what strength that we'd have left we'd save each others final breaths for a distressed phone call to 9-1-1 and in minutes they'd arrive, horrified at what they might find. It'd be you and I (and a pile of ashes) hand in hand and in each others arms... but it's not that bad. They revived me on the scene (and took my temperature and pulse) and while the handsome paramedic gave you mouth-to-mouth, I bit my tongue in hopes they could save your life. Just you and I (and a pile of ashes) hand in hand and in each others arms. In a week when we look back, we'll be bandaged up, but laugh it off. Your skin might be thicker and my stuff, it might be gone, but we'll have crammed everything we need in this song. We'll have everything we'd need inside this song. Just you and I (and a pile of ashes) hand in hand and in each others arms.
