Here you are.

You're teasing your Troubadour Song Brigade

by loudly yawning at their saddest serenade.



Here you are.

The wind is combing your cat and kissing your mouse.

You're about to free the buttons

of your billowing blouse.



Coz, You and I, we're trapped in sweet insanity.

We live and die for a fistful of love.

Coz, You and I, in spite of pride and vanity,

We live and die for a fistful of love.



Lovers guess you're touchy, full of clumsy shame.

A fragile girl in a perfect woman,

saying prayers every day.

Obviously they do not know you,

but one day I'm sure they will.



Here you are.

Expecting an ovation to your swinging hips

and betrayed by the dance of the whispering lips.



Coz, You and I, we're trapped in sweet insanity.

We live and die for a fistful of love.

Coz, You and I, in spite of pride and vanity,

We live and die for a fistful of love.



Until I feel your nails in my back,

I don't care whose girl you are.

Judging by my fresh wound map,

I'm your favorite bedroom star.

I want to hear you moan and shouting:

"Here I come my alpha gun!"