So many plans,
so little clans,
ready to dance,
friend of romance,
romantic languages, like that Italian guy,
who needed a ceiling to paint the whole sky,
you come and you go,
to reap what you sow,
don't start with that show,
the ideas that blow,
pitchforks, corks and other fireworks,
be it February or May,
my thoughts go to holiday,
I miss some free time, me and a French mime,
to gain some pain along the Seine.
I want to be somewhere far away,
I really really need that holiday,
do as they say and you may
live another day, low-key,
a farm, two horses and some hay,
Marquis of Frey.
I breathe again, inhaling the fresh winter air,
dying at 120 with no heir,
Bruxelles, world fair,
it was 1958, mate, waiting at the gate,
no enemies, just me and a Belgian waffle, chocolate,
the best that you can get, all set,
it's nothing but a memory right now.
Go with the flow!
