Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two. I'm one of your talking wounded. I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded. But I'm in Paris with you.
Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled And resentful at the mess I've been through. I admit I'm on the rebound And I don't care where are we bound. I'm in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame, If we skip the Champs Elysées And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room Doing this and that To what and whom Learning who you are, Learning what I am.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris, The little bit of Paris in our view. There's that crack across the ceiling And the hotel walls are peeling And I'm in Paris with you. Don't talk to me of love.
Let's talk of Paris. I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do. I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth, I'm in Paris with... all points south. Am I embarrassing you? I'm in Paris with you.
-James Fenton
maybe I should just bask in the glory of Love and stay in that safe zone within my mind where I can keep you in there with all the disappointment I so experience. Believe me the brine that flows contains none of it, that it does not excrete what I feel, to only comfort me, only comfort me, only comfort me.
ABOUTAGIRL
ZAB
My brain, my strings and my keys.
BMus Double Major
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Vision College, Hamilton, NZ LOVES
BrettCalebJoanneNick - Tutooooors and their bands DISCLAIMER
Everything in this blog is not to be taken literally sometimes.Thank you for reading and leave me a message. =)
