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Fitzgerald Patrik Gifts And Telegrams My Death (J Brel,m Shuman,e Blau) My death waits like an old roue' so confident that i'll go his way whistle for him and the passing time... my death waits like a bible truth at the funerals of my youth where we laughed at that - the passing time.. my death waits like a witch at night just as surely as our love is right oh,let's not think about the passing time. For whatever lies behind the door there is nothing much to do now... angel or devil,well,i don't care for,in front of that door... there is you. My death waits like a beggar blind who sees the world with an unlit mind throw him a dime for the passing time... my death waits to allow my friends just one or two good times before it all ends we'll drink to that to the passing time.. my death waits there,between your thighs, your cool fingers will close my eyes, let's not think about the passing time. For whatever... And my death waits in the falling leaves in a magician's mysterious sleeves; with his rabbits,with his doves, with his passing time... my death waits there,in all the flowers where the blackest shadows will cower where the lilacs chime for the passing time.. my death waits there,in your double bed your cool fingers against my head oh,let's not think about the passing time. |
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