| She said, I’ve got to get away
|
| Be smart stay cool, hey
|
| Don’t be that way
|
| I got to get away
|
| You know I love you
|
| But I really cannot stay
|
| I’ve booked a ticket on a plane
|
| And when she said it
|
| She was on the phone
|
| Call long distance
|
| Then she smiled and said
|
| I’m coming home
|
| She packed her bag
|
| And blew a kiss, it missed
|
| And gave the dog a pat
|
| And then she said
|
| She had to run…
|
| If you knew where to look
|
| She could bear contemplation
|
| Her assets ain’t suffered
|
| Because of inflation
|
| Sure, sex meant a lot
|
| I gave her my best shot
|
| But if I wasn’t so hot
|
| Well, there must have been some books that I could read
|
| How could I hope to have kept her
|
| Just a cheap lousy dime-a-day tune-smith
|
| Now my words don’t impress her
|
| I keep on ending lines like this with spend-thrift
|
| Disposable tunes
|
| That’s when 'moon' rhymes with 'June'
|
| Seems to ruffle her conscience
|
| And give her the bee
|
| How else could I pay
|
| For those long months away
|
| With those so special people
|
| Who live in … (?)
|
| She said, will you promise to be strong
|
| I grabbed her hand and asked her
|
| «Honey, there must be something wrong»
|
| And she replied, «Well how can I live
|
| In such a light-weight song?»
|
| And then she said she had to run…
|
| Now I think she’s in Cuba
|
| With a house on a bay
|
| With a great view
|
| But they’ll have to remove her
|
| Cuz she keeps on telling Fidel what to do
|
| I can just hear him say
|
| As she gets her own way
|
| And the tourists flock in
|
| And the mob cashes in
|
| «I've tried not to be
|
| So petit bourgeoisie
|
| But I can’t help but feel
|
| That the revolution’s
|
| Gone right round the bend»
|
| I promise to be strong
|
| There must be something wrong
|
| Booked a ticket on a plane
|
| I’ll be on my way
|
| Run… |