Somewhere in the autumn sea The kind of love you are to me I stole you From a very special friend So the friendship had to end And how You can't kill relationships Watch them drown like sinking ships Around you But to live is to betray Every second every day Oh wow Here comes the now
Somewhere in the autumn air I can smell you everywhere Beside me Though your face has disappeared Finally, I know I cared For you As the leaf falls in the sea Slips the sand of memory Inside me Rows of lights flash off and on Finally I see you've gone It's true What can I do?
"Hunting? No, I think it's a perfectly beastly sport!" quipped Frobisher as they leaned on the mantlepiece over the crisp autumn fire.
Featherstonehaugh felt his calves warming pleasantly as the brandy seeped below his waist: knotting slightly over the abdomen, suddenly passing back up through the spine, causing a small trickle of the otherwise pleasing brown fluid to shoot from the fontanel on top of his head which landed on top of the other guy's head (I've forgotten his name now... aw, anyway, he got covered in it).
"Aw, what's this?"
"Some kind of fluid," said Featherstonehaugh.
"Fluid? Oh, that's the tops!"
Somewhere in the autumn sky Cross my heart and swear to die I chose you Trails burning everywhere Sulfur fingers in the air I scream Brambles swarm around the fence Everything in deep suspense I froze you Out, but it's your point of view I am just somebody who has been Into your dream
"No, they use them for clothes pegs, you know!" continued Featherstonehaugh, somewhat more droll.
"Really?" said Butterworth, who was feeling rather left out of the conversation.
"Oh yes, that's right, you know, they pick them up in Siberia and bring them over."
"Siberia!" Interjected the fellow whose name I still can't remember. "Topping place! Went there once. Found a little moustache. One of the Russkies had it. Wah ha ha! Took it home, don't you know. Showed the little lady. Hrrmph. She put it on. Left me for another woman. Hmmm. Rum things, lefts. And women."
He was left alone: there was no one there, not even a woman, just the fireplace and his ever swelling chins. As the brandy began taking lethal effect, Featherstonehaugh (or was it Butterworth? Or was it the other guy whose name I can't remember?) found himself slowly turning into some kind of helpless, diseased houseplant. As he watched his future and his past gradually become interchangeable like a highway surrounding a drunken man that begins to spin, he looked up above him. Even the angels were asleep. It was one of those nights.
Ahhh OctoberTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
