Careful in the kitchen

Says the man in red

He knows exactly where to hang his head

Someones in the bedroom

Playing with the lamp

Love is like her hair beneath the curtain soiled and damp



Isn't she so beautiful

In her baby blues

I'll be over when I know

That she's all over you



I can hear the ticking

Of the cuckoo clock

I can see you hiding in the shadow of her locks

She don't really love you

She don't understand

What she's got between the precious creases of her hands



Life becomes the poet

Messing with her words

In the margin soft and blurred

Time is my complexion

Love is my parade

Funny how the fiddler knows exactly when to play