My love for you is ...
These days, summer holidays are the family
riding the N3 in our SUV. It ends at the sea.
These days are far away from the purple haze
of your tiny loft that hung over the city.
You wanted me but you couldn’t be
the life in suburbia with a white picket fence
two kids, a TV and the bourgeoise.
You see, I sentenced that life to me.
Chorus
Once upon a time we ran to be free
in blue, blue skies and sunshine and highs.
I remember your December and a left-over party.
A case of champagne and the angst and the pain,
and the rastas downstairs doing doobs in the rain.
And you improvising to a Sinatra refrain ...
Doobie, doobie do; my love for you is,
Doobie, doobie do; my love for you is true.
You called me last summer heartbroken and alone.
Your band broke up after the World Cup.
My little girl was eating an ice-cream cone,
mixing a mess into her pretty, pink dress.
My heart melted; my heart was not my own.
And my words stuck to the receiver of the phone.
You said, the poetry is no longer with me.
You see, poetry is for the young and care free.
Chorus
This summer you call to say you realise
that blue, blue skies and sunshine are lies.
And I’m listening to you and the baby cries.
You say all your bohemia has to show
is a place to hide scars in bars and bell jars.
Well I’m doing just fine, thanks, this is mine.
And thank you too, for once upon a time,
in the music and the rhythm and the rhyme.
Chorus
The council tore down the old building you were in
to make way for a glitzy mall with a whole lotta wall.
The rastas are gone; look what they’ve done, friends say,
you’re on a one way ticket to Dover, dried up and sober.
Is the night air sweet over there? Does the moon lie fair?
No case of champagne and no angst and no pain,
no rastas downstairs doing doobs in the rain
and no you improvising to a Sinatra refrain ...
Doobie, doobie do; my love for you is,
Doobie, doobie do; my love for you is true.
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