I'm cleaning my house
cause I want you think I'm clean.
You're the only one left here
who could think that of me.
You float through the door,
through the haze,
past my sleeping body.
You'll talk about the moonlight,
American winter,
and not of the day.
I'm dusting my books
cause I want you to think I'm read.
(I'm read, I'm read.)
That I'm more than a child,
that I think further than my bed.
I'll fetch you a flower
from the loveliest garden of mome raths.
But I saw you from my bed,
only in my head,
and under the sea.
(Ah-wee-mah, ah-wee-moh-way
Ah-wee-mah, ah-wee-moh-way
Ah-wee-mah, ah-wee-moh-way
Ah-wee-mah, ah-wee-moh-way
Ah-wee-mah, ah-wee-moh-way
Ah-wee-mah, ah-wee-moh-way
Ah-wee-mah, ah-wee-moh-way
Ah-wee-mah, ah-wee-moh-way)
We'll talk about the moonlight,
American winter,
American winter,
and not of the day.