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I'm susceptible to stars in the skies, |
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I'm incurably romantic, |
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if they're told to me all covered with sighs, |
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the wildest of lies seems true. |
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Each time a lovebird sings, |
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I have no defenses, |
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my heart is off on wings |
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along with my senses. |
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I'm a set-up for the moon when it's bright, |
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I'm incurably romantic. |
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And I shouldn't be allowed out at night, |
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with anyone quite like you. |
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But, oh! Your arms are nice, |
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and it would be awfully nice |
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if you turned out to be starry-eyed like me, |
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and incurably romantic too. |
