I will only sing it one more time;
One more line, nineteen-sixty-nine.
It’s memory, New Year’s Eve.
Next morning nineteen-seventy.

I can get along, though sad.
Hair’s too long—too bad!
My song’s too dissonant;
She was not prepared for it.
My budding woman, sixteen then,
My lover placed my hand on her full breast.
On her full breast, what tenderness!

My lover then
OK, OK, drew me near;
OK, yeah, right here.
We melt into the snow.
Show me what you know, she says.
OK last day of the sixties.

Age is ending.
Kiss me!
OK, how you please me
Death is nearing,
Kiss me!
With deep kiss, with tenderness,
No defense.

I could not be wrong,
I knew it.
But how young boys can be wrong;
How the young boys can be wrong.

Oh lover lover,
Her moans her hand in hair
Get me there.
Her hand on my member,
No other.
Oh show me,
I want to know.
To love you, we crawl inside the snow.
To love you, oh lover lover!

Come too soon;
I want it better, longer.
To last I can’t I
Too late my Kay, my only lover,
Who will always find another.
Oh lover, do me better!

I’m twenty-five now and I can last all night,
Last all night if that’s what you want.
Oh, but the young don’t wait.
I want her, coming at a touch.

Too late. Too late!
Too late, young don’t wait.

I can get along, though sad.
Hair’s too long—it should’a been long back then,
But now too late;
She does not wait.
No, the young don’t wait.
The young don’t wait.
Young don’t wait.
The young don’t wait.
The young don’t wait.

I want you to make it sixty-nine just one more time,
Cause the young don’t wait.
I think it’s too late,
Cause the young don’t wait.

The young don’t wait.
The young don’t wait.
The young don’t wait.
The young don’t wait.

Mike Enright, c. 1978