In a quaint French restaurant

In a village at dark

Waitress sings, I picked a violet from my mothers grave.


In the streets the children play

Like the famed 18th century

And your flesh paces through the drifting leaves


I dont care that much for living

I dont care if its not right

I just want these gates to open

I dont mind


In a quaint French restaurant

In a village at dark

A fellow tempts his wife of twenty years

A fair and young Emma Bovary

Threads her hands where the senses dream

Still your flesh paces through the drifting leaves


Only you neednt know it now

Truly I wish not to say

That all men kill the only thing they love


I dont care if we just ravage

Lay waste to these great towers

Oh how our blood will pour down

But that doesnt sound nice to you


Waitress, cheque please.