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
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