Pictures In The Attic
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by Beeb Birtles, Bill Cuomo and Ron Krasinski

I'm climbing the stairway that leads to the door,
to a room where we keep things we use no more,
a room with no windows, a room with no view,
a room filled with mem'ries of me and you,
I pull on the chord that turns on the light,
boxes all around me left to hide.

There in the corner it catches my eye,
the leather-bound album of years gone by,
alone with my feelings, I cry and I laugh,
alone as I through these photographs,
the children have grown, they've all moved away,
and you and I, we don't have too much to say.

Where are we in the sceme of things,
have we reached the end, or do we just pretend?
Can't you see we're both victims of theft,
when pictures in the attic are all we have left?

I'm climbing the ladder, the bridge to my past,
'cause life's disappearing oh so fast,
here in these pictures the story is told,
all the love we once had that's now grown cold,
there's somehwere in time, we drifted apart,
losing what we once held in our hearts.

Where are we in the sceme of things,
have we reached the end, or do we just pretend?
Can't you see we're both victims of theft,
when pictures in the attic are all we have left?

Tell me, tell you, it's lonely,
if we go our seperate ways ...

- guitar solo -

'Cause somehwere in time, we drifted apart,
losing what we once held in our hearts.

Where are we in the sceme of things,
have we reached the end, or do we just pretend?
Can't you see we're both victims of theft,
when pictures in the attic are all we have left?