C | C | G | F | |
My l | ove she speaks like silence |
C | G | F | |
Without ideals or violence |
C | |
She doesn’t have to say she’s f | aithful |
Dm | G7 | |
Yet she's t | rue, like ice, like f | ire |
C | C | G | F | |
P | eople carry roses |
C | C | G | F | |
And make promises by the h | ours |
C | |
My love she laughs like the fl | owers |
F | G7 | C | |
Valent | ines c | an’t buy h | er |
C | C | G | F | |
In the d | ime stores and bus stations |
C | C | G | F | |
People talk of situ | ations |
C | |
Read books, repeat quot | ations |
Dm | G7 | |
Draw concl | usions on the w | all |
C | C | G | F | |
S | ome speak of the future |
C | C | G | F | |
My love she speaks s | oftly |
C | |
She knows there’s no success like f | ailure |
F | (C) | G7 | C | |
And that f | ailure’s n | o succ | ess at | all |
C | C | G | F | |
The cl | oak and dagger dangles |
C | C | G | F | |
Madams light the c | andles |
F | C | |
In c | eremonies of the h | orsemen |
Dm | G7 | |
Even the p | awn must hold a gr | udge |
C | C | G | F | |
St | atues made of match sticks |
C | C | G | F | |
Crumble into one an | other |
C | |
My love winks, she does not b | other |
F | G7 | C | |
She kn | ows too much to | argue or to j | udge |
C | C | G | F | |
The br | idge at midnight trembles |
C | C | G | F | |
The country doctor r | ambles |
C | |
Bankers’ nieces seek p | erfection |
Dm | G7 | |
Expecting | all the gifts that wise men br | ing |
C | C | G | F | |
The w | ind howls like a hammer |
C | C | G | F | |
The night blows r | ainy |
C | |
My love she’s like some r | aven |
F | (C) | G7 | C | |
At my w | indow w | ith a br | oken w | ing |