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Oh Angelina, |
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Aren't we lucky to live in this odd little world? |
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Aren't we lucky to walk in this funeral line? |
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And if we marry, |
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I'll kiss every tear from her eyes, |
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If we marry, |
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I'll love every word from her lovely young mouth, |
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And we'll drive past the violent blooms of the opulent south... |
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We walked past the cathedrals, |
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And the lampposts all humming, |
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And I told her that though |
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I can't bend back the barbs of these wires, |
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Aren't we lucky to live in this world full of fire, |
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And I told her about how you would sing for your life as a child, |
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And I showed her azaleas and books of pressed flowers you pulled wild, |
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And I told her how lucky was all that I ever have been, |
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And will you marry me, |
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Kimberly Anne? |
