Each verse gets worse– a last-ditch effort to disseminate some quality teen angst before Valentine’s Month is over:
I want you to draw me like one of your French girls
But I am nobody’s little weasel.
They say bread is life. And I bake bread,
—You see? The comsumptives plot against me.
don’t know how much I need you. While you’re near me, I don’t feel blue.
Yet, a bird may love a fish, Signore, but where would they live?
So I’m not bitter anymore, because I know that what we had was real and
destiny is something we’ve invented because we can’t stand the fact that
everything that happens is accidental.
you dance like a herd of cattle.
You are a rare woman who lights up a room simply by leaving it!