I was sure I didn't love you--
I was sure I never could,
'cause you're not the kind of woman
that I thought I ever would.

So when you called me "sweetie"
as you left for Rome that day,
I wanted to say, "I'm not,
don't talk to me that way."

"I'm nothing more than just a friend,
that's all I want to be.
Of course I care about you, but
not in the way you mean."

"So don't go getting ideas
in your little weasel head.
I never want to spend the night
in your little weasel bed."

I thought that with you gone away
I'd think of you not at all,
so I was quite surprised one day
when I wondered if you'd call.

And when I started checking the mail
for a post card sent from you,
I really started wondering
what the hell I was going through.

I found that I was missing you
more than I cared to admit,
I found that I was wanting you, too,
more than a little bit.

Tonight you let your black hair down,
push finally came to shove,
and the weasel girl I once disdained
became the woman I love.

Every morning, when I wake up
and I see you sleeping there,
my heart fills up with grateful
for the tender love we share.

When I think of all we've been through,
how our love beats all the odds,
and I feel how much you love me,
I gotta believe in God, 'cause

Who else could have brought me an angel?
Was there anyone in all the world who knew
how to heal my aching heart of lonely?
Who else could have brought me to you?

In the evening, when we lie down
making love so slow and sweet
just caressing you forever
is the place I want to be

Then you fall asleep beside me
breathing gentle in my ear
before I drift off into sleep
I say a little prayer, 'cause

Who else could have brought me an angel?
was there anyone in all the world who knew
how to heal my aching heart of lonely?
Who else could have brought me to you?

Lips busy
kissing--
cannot tell lies

lips busy
kissing--
can't speak
angry words

Lips busy
kissing--
are a fountain
of sweetness

Drink
to your
thirsty hearts'
content,
busy lips!

Blue moon in heaven--
    no love to hold.
Even this warm
    summer night
        has turned cold.

Most things
    called love
       are not--
         roses
          have
           thorns
            for good
                      reason.