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Pale, pubescent beasts, roam through the streets |
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And coffee-shops, their prey gather in herds |
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Of stiff knee-length skirts, and white ankle-socks |
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But while they search for a mate, my type hibernate |
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In bedrooms above, composing their songs of love |
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Young, uniform minds, in uniform lines |
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And uniform ties, run round with trousers on fire |
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And signs of desire, they cannot disguise, |
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While I try to find words, as light as the birds |
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That circle above, to put in my songs of love |
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Fate doesn't hang, on a wrong or right choice |
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Fortune depends, on the tone of your voice |
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So sing while you have time, let the sun shine down from above |
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And fill you with songs of love |
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Fate doesn't hang, on a wrong or right choice |
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Fortune depends, on the tone of your voice |
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So let's sing while we still can, while the sun hangs high up above |
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Wonderful songs of love, beautiful songs of love |
