When I was seventeen, it was a very good year, it was a very good year for small-town girls and soft summer nights. We'd hide from the lights on the village green when I was seventeen. When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year, it was a very good year for city boys who lived up the stairs with the nicely-grown hair, and we had so much fun when I was twenty-five. When I was thirty-five, it was a very good year, it was a very good year for blue-blooded girls of independent means. We'd ride in limousines that their chauffeurs would drive when I was thirty-five, thirty-five. But now the days are short, we're in the autumn of the year, and now we think of our lives as village wines. The final taste, from the brim to the grapes, it was sweet and clear, it was a very good year, it was a very good year, very good year, very good year.