Lyrics Claire Fontaine - Hawksley Workman

Claire Fontaine

I like the paper you make
We were introduced
By a lover of mine
And now she’s gone
But I still have you
Claire Fontaine
Claire Fontaine
You seem to bring
The best out of me
And the things that
I write to sing
Claire Fontaine
Claire Fontaine
Are you a lumberjack or something?
Does your father own a forest
Are the nicest trees for choppin'?
Claire Fontaine
And Claire Fontaine
Your sheets are very smooth
I like to rub my pen across them
Do you feel the way I do
Claire Fontaine?
Claire Fontaine
You seem to bring
The best out of me
In the things that
I write to sing
Claire Fontaine
If newspapers used
Your paper for the news
Things would seem less terrifying
Just because of you
Claire Fontaine
And were you in a garden
When they said the war had started
Do you think you’d write a letter
That would start 'my dear departed…'
Claire Fontaine
Claire Fontaine
You seem to bring
The best out of me
And the things that
I write to sing
Claire Fontaine
Oooh-oh
Claire Fontaine
I’m going home for Christmas
They may refuse me entry
'Cause you’re native to this country
Claire Fontaine
But as a foreigner relinquish
A pad of paper so distinguished
I’d say 'never, never, never
I’ll take this pad of mine to heaven'
Claire Fontaine
Where maybe I would choose
To write a fan letter or two
I might write one to Andy Warhol
And the other one for you
And you could rest assured in knowing
They’d be on your paper too
Claire Fontaine
Who are you?
Claire Fontaine
You seem to bring
The best out of me
And the thing that
I write to sing
Claire Fontaine