From beneath her belle of hair, what can I say?
Olive green eyes from Maltese groves
curtained behind her fringe, they can see right in.
Not deflected by some bashful, faked and winning grin,
she knows just how I want to sin,
and, hell, why not, sailor?
Well, you hope she’d had a smashing day as you fall asleep
and when you stroke yourself awake, it’s her you first remember.
Play up, play down and kiss away that hurt frown
and it kills you that she’s feeling down,
when, you think of arms entwined around your neck:
her body could be thrust against your chest
and how the love would be just somehow blessed.
You know it’s your job to jump right in,
swim beneath her, palming and chesting her chin.
To fight the abyss with a shrug, because you know the place
of old, and you have to caress the tear from her face.
Because you want to show her that you care
but she’s slipped away to be not never there.
She can see I’m acting like a fool,
three in the morning, tossing and yawing.
Reaching for the phone in case she’s calling,
and you need a drink to get the courage to say: I’m falling.