Love is a thin goat staked out in a clearing
Seeing you makes me want to lift up my top
You are the bread and the knife, I'm butter
In Raglan Lane, in the gentle rain, I saw love again
Words plucked out of the air
Perhaps you will tire of me, says my love
If I was not myself, I would be somebody else
like fruit, like shining fruit
There but for the clutch of luck, go I
I can't get it out of my mind, out of my mind
Yes, I can hear. It hurts
Anyone who touched her would be sorry
I would never recommend a shallow stream
I'd rest a bit, and then I would muddle around
The ferryman lay drunk in his boat
Who are you? asks my mother
All winter, your brute shoulders
Ther will be dying, there will be dying
You always wore brown
Our hats were extremely soft
I decide to keep my penis on, but disregard the rest
The radio station is filled with goats and chickens
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