Tonight she'll be beautiful again
and I'll be full of wine again.
And all I'll remember as the fire turns to ember
is that her lips were so warm and my feet were almost cold,
halfway through December.
A cowboy Saturday night,
and a poet Sunday afternoon.
I woke up dreaming of my trust fund
with a start that split the spoon.
And don't blame the tonic, blame the gin.
I sent you a million kisses on the wind.
But the wind was roaring, and turned into stormy whirls
that placed them on the lips of other girls.
And do blame anyone but me…
Blame this city, blame the movies, blame our genes
that all the girls are turning into ladies,
and us my brothers, we're turning into machines.
Forgive me and keep me safe from harm,
wrap me up in tender arms.
There are so many faces,
and I always get lost in the wrong places.
So strap these anchors to my heart.
Strap these anchors to my heart.
(Strap these anchors to this heart)
