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I died today a little more,
But nothing's lost. I've died before.
I played the old forbidden game;
I spoke your name,
Petulia.

The arms closing; the lips parting;
The heart stopping; the chills starting.

Such little things and feather-light:
Your hand in mine, the summer night.
Such little things ... how could they spell
Eternal hell,
Petulia?

The door locking; the keys jingling;
The slow melting; the swift mingling.

But I have lived like many men,
And I am doomed to live again;
A broken toy that none will claim,
Who speaks your name:
Petulia,
Petulia.

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