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.