Song | Franklin's Table |
Artist | Al Stewart |
Album | Down in the Cellar |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作词 : Stewart | |
Dinner with Ben Franklin on Friday night | |
The invitation read | |
Of course I wrote and thanked him | |
I wouldn't miss it for the world I said | |
His table is so well kept | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
The habits of the court of France | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I've heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation | |
The English call it claret | |
And clear and red it sits inside my glass | |
Sent to us from Paris | |
A greater kindness never came to pass | |
We'll drink his health, with the last | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
Of almanacs and spectacles | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I've heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation | |
Time goes by in stories | |
Wine goes by, dark and young | |
When it comes my turn here | |
I'll be telling one with a purple tongue | |
The night grows philosophic | |
I miss a word or two, it must be said | |
As I hear them talking | |
I sink a little keeping in my chair | |
Thanking the fates that brought me here | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
Of lightening and odometers | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I've heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation |
zuo ci : Stewart | |
Dinner with Ben Franklin on Friday night | |
The invitation read | |
Of course I wrote and thanked him | |
I wouldn' t miss it for the world I said | |
His table is so well kept | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
The habits of the court of France | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I' ve heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation | |
The English call it claret | |
And clear and red it sits inside my glass | |
Sent to us from Paris | |
A greater kindness never came to pass | |
We' ll drink his health, with the last | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
Of almanacs and spectacles | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I' ve heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation | |
Time goes by in stories | |
Wine goes by, dark and young | |
When it comes my turn here | |
I' ll be telling one with a purple tongue | |
The night grows philosophic | |
I miss a word or two, it must be said | |
As I hear them talking | |
I sink a little keeping in my chair | |
Thanking the fates that brought me here | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
Of lightening and odometers | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I' ve heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation |
zuò cí : Stewart | |
Dinner with Ben Franklin on Friday night | |
The invitation read | |
Of course I wrote and thanked him | |
I wouldn' t miss it for the world I said | |
His table is so well kept | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
The habits of the court of France | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I' ve heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation | |
The English call it claret | |
And clear and red it sits inside my glass | |
Sent to us from Paris | |
A greater kindness never came to pass | |
We' ll drink his health, with the last | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
Of almanacs and spectacles | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I' ve heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation | |
Time goes by in stories | |
Wine goes by, dark and young | |
When it comes my turn here | |
I' ll be telling one with a purple tongue | |
The night grows philosophic | |
I miss a word or two, it must be said | |
As I hear them talking | |
I sink a little keeping in my chair | |
Thanking the fates that brought me here | |
He plays the glass harmonica | |
And talks of wind and kites | |
Of lightening and odometers | |
And other strange delights | |
Of course I' ve heard it all before | |
On other wintry nights | |
And yet there is no better wine or conversation |