Wild Strawberries Careful
Careful in the kitchen Says the man in red He knows exactly where to hang his head Someones in the bedroom Playing with the lamp Love is like her hair beneath the curtain soiled and damp Isn't she so beautiful In her baby blues I'll be over when I know That she's all over you I can hear the ticking Of the cuckoo clock I can see you hiding in the shadow of her locks She don't really love you She don't understand What she's got between the precious creases of her hands Life becomes the poet Messing with her words In the margin soft and blurred Time is my complexion Love is my parade Funny how the fiddler knows exactly when to play
