| I suppose love lives in a dustbin behind the garden wall
|
| You have to grovel on the ground and be pretty disgusting
|
| To find it at all
|
| And I suppose that it grows on you
|
| Standing there with no clothes on
|
| And I suppose because there’s beautiful girls in this town
|
| I’ll stay here till I’ve chosen one
|
| I suppose life’s like a hunt, really: the hounds have fun
|
| Until the fox gets bagged
|
| And not one girl in this town will ever fall in love with me:
|
| They’ll get dragged
|
| Her heart speaks to me; |
| says the room the room the room
|
| Beneath her dress, and I suppose that it beats for me
|
| Like a hammering moon pulling tides through her chest
|
| Suppose she says that she owes me
|
| All that she owns and all that she is
|
| It seems to me I suppose that her heart’s not enough
|
| And her love is a swizz
|
| So suppose love lives in a mansion
|
| How the hell do I get over the wall?
|
| And if my rope’s not stretched the right tension
|
| I won’t cross this grand canyon at all
|
| And I suppose that it grows like a tumor, spreads like a rumor
|
| Like the grass grows and inch every day
|
| And I suppose that before I even know it, the tide will start flowing
|
| And the drum beneath my jacket will say:
|
| You know you need her everyday
|
| She is the moon and she showed me her face
|
| She is the house and she opened the gates |