In a quaint French restaurant
In a village at dark
Waitress sings, I picked a violet from my mothers grave.
In a village at dark
Waitress sings, I picked a violet from my mothers grave.
In the streets the children play
Like the famed 18th century
And your flesh paces through the drifting leaves
I dont care that much for living
I dont care if its not right
I just want these gates to open
I dont mind
In a quaint French restaurant
In a village at dark
A fellow tempts his wife of twenty years
A fair and young Emma Bovary
Threads her hands where the senses dream
Still your flesh paces through the drifting leaves
Only you neednt know it now
Truly I wish not to say
That all men kill the only thing they love
I dont care if we just ravage
Lay waste to these great towers
Oh how our blood will pour down
But that doesnt sound nice to you
Waitress, cheque please.
Encontrou algum erro na letra? Por favor envie uma correção clicando aqui!