I found the perfect picture, of a perfect stranger.
It looked as if, it were taken in the forties sometime,
Judging by the style.
It looked as if, it were taken in the forties sometime,
Judging by the style.
He could be a killer or a blind man with a cane,
Perhaps he died in a car crash, years ago.
Right now, it’s impossible to tell.
I almost thought I saw him, standing, whistling on a bridge.
I asked him the time, but when he turned around,
I saw it wasn’t him at all.
I’m still searching.
I’m still searching.
I saw him in an airport, while he was sitting on a wing.
And I waved to him, but I don’t think he noticed me.
I’ve got a funny feeling I know who he is