I traced your arms
As you laid spread out on the Sunday paper
Looked like the crime scene of an angel ghost
I heard the gate clatter to on the elevator
I wrapped myself up in it, like a cold beef roast
Fell asleep, was cooked medium
Placed on a dinner room table in Brooklyn
Before an older couple surrounded by family and friends
So wonderful and kind
It flies back to you giving dollars
To homeless men down in the Bowery
Not before they convinced you
It was for sandwiches and not for wine
I could never convince you baby
That this was our time

This was our time
This was our time

Now you're feeding my fabulous Chinese takeout
On the dampened bedsheets
Our last supper so you might say
I woke up in a cold sweat and realized
We'd never cooked one meal together
You always said why bother
We have cuisines of the world
Laid at our feet everyday

And I thought of our first date back in Nashville
We shared the poo poo platter
You enjoyed it with such gusto
I took it for a sign
We would have many happy meals together
In a warm dining room somewhere
Maybe even Brooklyn
That was way back then
And I was just another guy
With food on his mind
But this baby this was our time

This was our time
This was our time
This was our time
What did you have in mind
This was our time

Copyright: Universal Music Publishing Group
Writer(s): JOHN HIATT