you whisper to me sinfully,

but I'm not much of a saint either,

your lust isn't lost on me,

my troublesome angel down from aether.

 

We'd fly to such great heights,

if only we had the time together,

to take in the bright star lights,

under the night bare of cloudy weather.

 

I know I'm not always happy,

but love me and you can have me,

and that's the best offer I've made all night,

suffering from a case of post-mortem stage fright,

that stops me when I try to act right,

but what's wrong?

 

Is there a problem if I stand here singing the same song,

I don't care what the audience thinks they'll be gone,

soon enough.