Curlylocks, Curlylocks, Wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash dishes Nor yet feed the swine, But sit on a cushion And sew a fine seam, And feed upon strawberries, Sugar and cream.
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
