Lost causes and hopeless romantics

Far from feeling like a chore Run around the same old sore... Spots that wear a stoic grin But stoics always wind up thin And all of those things Add up to nothing They go round and round and round And all of it is just repeated sound All the things we used to be Are ashes and the fallen leaves Autumn spring and all the lore Feel me old and like a chore And all of those things Add up to nothing