Just dry guitar at first — clipped little strokes, bright and quick.

Voice comes in close and almost tossed-off: they paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

Pink hotel, boutique, swingin' hot spot — the list keeps replacing living ground with places built to sell it back.

And right into the hook, still light on its feet: don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

Those shoo-bop syllables make the whole charge feel weightless — a singalong carrying a private accusation.

Trees go into a tree museum. Same brisk strum, no pause to mourn it.

A dollar and a half just to see 'em — the joke turns colder while the guitar stays polished and commercial.

Hook again, same easy lift. Parking lot still lands funny, ugly, and final.

Hey farmer, farmer — the plea against DDT is plain, but it stays inside that skipping pulse so it never becomes a speech.

Spots on my apples, birds and the bees, please — the vocal softens a touch without asking the guitar to ease up.

Back to the chorus on the same hard brightness. Nothing in the arrangement has darkened for the argument.

Late last night, screen door slam — sudden shrink from public ecology into one person leaving.

A big yellow taxi took away my old man. Same structure as the paved ground, now aimed at love.

The hook comes straight back — no private extra time. The quick tempo feels a little crueler for it.

I said, don't it always seem to go — she stacks the refrain while the backing voices bounce harder.

Paved paradise tags keep answering the shoo-bops. Still bright, still accusing, no grand resolution.

One last parking-lot hit and the strum just drops away. The damage named here doesn't resolve inside the track.