Sunday

Why is it always someone else’s hand you are holding
Why is it always someone else’s lips you are holding
When you come my door will always be open
When you sleep I will always be hoping
Can you drive around my house
Don’t you think that Sunday is alright
Bring along your staplegun
And we write poems all through the night
Why is it always some say the world will end in fire
Why is it always you keep running away from desire
When you come my door will always be open
When you sleep I will always be hoping
Can you drive around my house
Don’t you think that Sunday is alright
Bring along your staplegun
And we write poems all through the night
My mother said that I never should play with the gipsies in the wood
If I did she would say
Naughty girl to disobey, disobey, disobey
Naughty girl to disobey
Can you drive around my house
Don’t you think that sunday is alright
Bring along your staplegun
And we write poems all through the night