God is love and love is real,
but the dead are dancing with the dead.
And whatever's charming disappears,
while all things lovely only hurt my head.
As I gather stones from fields like pearls of water on my fingers ends
and I carefully wrap them up in boxes,
safe from windows, from things that break.
As the night-time shined like day it saw my sorry face,
and hair a mess but it liked me best that way
(Besides, how else could I confess?
When I looked down like if to pray,
well I was looking down her dress...)
Good God, please!
Catch for us the foxes, in the vineyard - The little foxes.
So turn your ears, you musicians, to silence because they [bad word] out when it's quiet.
Their tails [bad word] over your eyelids.
Oh wake up, sleeper, and rise from the dead!
Or the fur that they shed will cover your bed in a delicate orange-ish cinnamon red,
ah, I don't need this!
I have my loves, I have my doubts.
I don't need this.