A tiny glass bulb done up in the air
A miniature sun that matches her hair

It's not that our hearts beat a samba
Neither of us knows the other too well
But she's one of those broken beauties
That are destined to drag me to hell

Not another, please not again
It's far too rough to want all these women

Still sitting in silence
Beneath this blooming bough
I think of a soul
I'm afraid to have found.