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CASANOVA |
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I'm on the frontpage of a dirty magazine |
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Mr. January pumpkin carousing |
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Can't you see my face it's alive |
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Close the curtains |
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Flip the switch, make me happy |
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Baby, you're a bitch |
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Turn me on, turn me on, tonight |
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Casanova, do you love her |
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Now do you really think that you will find |
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That bit of self-esteem to push between her legs |
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And make her happy like you used to do |
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And the time when everything was simple |
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She was seventeen and you were twenty two |
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And it was summer |
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It was the summer when you ran away |
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From the traffic noise of screaming rubber ducks |
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And grieving wives on channel 45 |
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When no one talks about the weather anymore |
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Casanova, you're getting older |
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Now the world is not for you to blame |
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It's just a movie rolling backwards |
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Randomly injecting choises that we call in vain |
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And the violence that you try to justify |
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is not a language that I still contain |
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But in the summer |
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I will wrap you up in cellophane |
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And bury you under the pouring rain |
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'Cause no one talks about the weather anymore |
