Will he hold your tiny face in his hands?
I guess it's spring; I didn't know
It's always seventy-five with no melting snow
A married man, he visits me
I receive his letters in the mail twice a week
And I think he loves me
And when he leaves her
He's coming out to California
Will he hold your tiny face in his hands?
I guess it's spring; I didn't know
It's always seventy-five with no melting snow
A married man, he visits me
I receive his letters in the mail twice a week
And I think he loves me
And when he leaves her
He's coming out to California
I meant the crimson tide. Faen ta ‘the tide’.
I bear no ill will towards babies.
I meant the crimson tide. Faen ta ‘the tide’.
I bear no ill will towards babies.
And you’ll be
In a wooooooorld of
And you’ll be
In a wooooooorld of