Talkin ‘bout my baby
Ahhh, Latin Lupe Lu
She’s a high flyin’ baby
Ain’t no dance she couldn’t do
[This version, not the Righteous Brothers’ one]
Take back your Samba, ay!, your Rumba, ay!, your Conga, ay-yi-yi!
I can’t keep movin’, ay!, my chassis, ay!, any longer, ay-yi-yi!
Now maybe Latins, ay!, in their middles, ay!, are built stronger, ay-yi-yi!
But all this takin’ to the quakin’, and this makin’ with the shakin’ leaves me achin’, olé!
Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga
I know you can’t control yourself any longer
Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger
Don’t you fight it 'til you tried it, do that conga beat
Shake your groove thing, shake your groove thing, yeah, yeah
Show 'em how we do it now, show 'em how we do it now
Play that funky music white boy
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music till you die
Wide boys, wide boys, wide boys, born with hearts of Lothian
Wide boys, we were wide boys, born with hearts of Lothian
Wide boys, we were wide boys, these hearts of Lothian
And it was morning, and I found myself mourning,
For a childhood that I thought had disappeared.
I looked out the window,
And I saw a magpie in the rainbow, the rain had gone
I’m not alone, I turned to the mirror,
I saw you, the child, that once loved.
Oh to live on Sugar Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons
You can’t be twenty on Sugar Mountain
Though you’re thinking that you’re leaving there too soon
And suddenly I find myself
Listening to a man I’ve never known before
Telling me about the sea, all his loves, 'till eternity
Ooh, he’s here again, the man with the child in his eyes
Think of a boy with the stars in his eye
Longing to reach them but frightened to try
Sadly you’d say someday, someday
But day after day the show must go on
She’ll turn her music on you
You won’t have to think twice
She’s pure as New York snow
She got Bette Davis eyes
She attracts household flies, she’s got
'Liz’beth Taylor thighs
There’s flies in the kitchen
I can hear ‘em buzzin’
And I ain’t done nothin’
Since I woke up today
And throw out all those L.A. papers
The moldy box of Vanilla Wafers
Adios to all this concrete
Gonna get me some dirt road back streets
Come Monday It’ll be all right
Come Monday I’ll be holding you tight
I spent four lonely days in a brown L.A. haze
and I just want you back by my side
Monday, Monday, so good to me;
Monday morning, it was all I hoped it would be.
But Monday morning, Monday morning couldn’t guarantee
That Monday evening you would still be here with me.
Tuesday afternoon
I’m just beginning to see
Now I’m on my way
Waiting for wednesday, my stomach doesn’t hurt enough,
Pain always is the sign.
Waiting for wednesday, no proof of mine exists,
So l don’t have to take it back.
Seeing my past to let it go
Throw me tomorrow
Only for you I don’t regret
That I was Thursday’s child
My child arrived just the other day
He came to the world in the usual way
But there were planes to catch and bills to pay
He learned to walk while I was away