Father Frankenstein Is Behind Your Pillow Lyrics

Song	Father Frankenstein Is Behind Your Pillow
Artist	Stackridge
Album	Friendliness
Download	Image LRC TXT

	作曲 : Warren
	The sun is up, the sky is red,
	the dawn has come the stars have fled.
	Your face so fair a damask rose,
	though scorched inside, my feelings grow.
	You only have to promise you will love me
	more than the earth.
	There's really no distinctions when
	Father Frankenstein is behind your pillow.
	The Georgian house that hides your name,
	reveals to me a picture frame.
	The tapered silk, the china cups, austere
	and to proud for touch.
	You only have to whisper, and like a slave
	I fawn at your feet.
	In the cold clandestine caverns,
	Brother Dracula will caress your windpipe.
	The troopers marching down that turnpike
	road that leads to Glastonbury,
	with relics of your grandeur once
	entombed at Batheaston Villa.
	The shadows from the crypt where Leo
	jumped inside your horoscope.
	Around the haystacks laughing
	when your ring was lost.
	The blinds are drawn, the candles waxed,
	the cheese and milk lay beside my hat.
	Your silvery hand had turned the page
	where good Bathsheba had left the stage.
	Those rainbows in your navel served
	to gratify your disdain,
	And in the scented glades of Adyar,
	dear Annie Besant is dusting
	her mausoleum.

	zuo qu : Warren
	The sun is up, the sky is red,
	the dawn has come the stars have fled.
	Your face so fair a damask rose,
	though scorched inside, my feelings grow.
	You only have to promise you will love me
	more than the earth.
	There' s really no distinctions when
	Father Frankenstein is behind your pillow.
	The Georgian house that hides your name,
	reveals to me a picture frame.
	The tapered silk, the china cups, austere
	and to proud for touch.
	You only have to whisper, and like a slave
	I fawn at your feet.
	In the cold clandestine caverns,
	Brother Dracula will caress your windpipe.
	The troopers marching down that turnpike
	road that leads to Glastonbury,
	with relics of your grandeur once
	entombed at Batheaston Villa.
	The shadows from the crypt where Leo
	jumped inside your horoscope.
	Around the haystacks laughing
	when your ring was lost.
	The blinds are drawn, the candles waxed,
	the cheese and milk lay beside my hat.
	Your silvery hand had turned the page
	where good Bathsheba had left the stage.
	Those rainbows in your navel served
	to gratify your disdain,
	And in the scented glades of Adyar,
	dear Annie Besant is dusting
	her mausoleum.

	zuò qǔ : Warren
	The sun is up, the sky is red,
	the dawn has come the stars have fled.
	Your face so fair a damask rose,
	though scorched inside, my feelings grow.
	You only have to promise you will love me
	more than the earth.
	There' s really no distinctions when
	Father Frankenstein is behind your pillow.
	The Georgian house that hides your name,
	reveals to me a picture frame.
	The tapered silk, the china cups, austere
	and to proud for touch.
	You only have to whisper, and like a slave
	I fawn at your feet.
	In the cold clandestine caverns,
	Brother Dracula will caress your windpipe.
	The troopers marching down that turnpike
	road that leads to Glastonbury,
	with relics of your grandeur once
	entombed at Batheaston Villa.
	The shadows from the crypt where Leo
	jumped inside your horoscope.
	Around the haystacks laughing
	when your ring was lost.
	The blinds are drawn, the candles waxed,
	the cheese and milk lay beside my hat.
	Your silvery hand had turned the page
	where good Bathsheba had left the stage.
	Those rainbows in your navel served
	to gratify your disdain,
	And in the scented glades of Adyar,
	dear Annie Besant is dusting
	her mausoleum.

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