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Tropical night, malaria moon |
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Dying stars of the silver screen |
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Oh she danced that famous gypsy dance |
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With a hole in her tambourine |
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I was young enough and dumb enough |
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I swallowed down my Mickey Finn |
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She'd hijacked a few hearts, all right |
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I went into a tail spin |
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Oh, don't sing me, don't sing me |
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Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs |
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Don't sing me, don't sing me |
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Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs |
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Don't stir it up again |
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I put my arm around her waist |
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Says she "Young man, you're getting warm" |
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The room was going somewhere without me |
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And she laughed as she read my palm |
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Oh, don't sing me, don't sing me |
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Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs |
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Don't sing me, don't sing me |
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Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs |
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Don't stir it up again |
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Oh stillborn love, passionate dreams, pitiful greed |
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And the silver tongues of the tinker girls |
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Who throw the book of life at you |
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But they don't know how to read |
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She was a third generation Transylvanian |
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I was the seventh son of a seventh son |
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I begged the band "Don't play that tune. |
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Please don't beguine the begun" |
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When I awoke, she'd cut and run |
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She stole my blueprints and my change |
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Just a horseshoe and a note on the bed |
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And all it read was "Strange" |
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Don't sing me, don't sing me |
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Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs |
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Don't sing me, don't sing me |
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Don't sing me, don't sing me |
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Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs |
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Don't stir it up again |
