Words of Art

These words, they come from the heart
From the heart that beats in you
They are merely words of art
Not the whole fucking truth
I will be a loving devotee
And you can be the hungry beast I feed
A man like me if an infidel, would much prefer your sister
Than spend his time a fraternising with another mister

What luck to have struck upon some basic beauty
It's reprehensible to behold, and downright unholy
What struck me as beauty you now defend with your license
This is and unreachable peach, and I don't uphold a pretence

What are days and weeks and months and years
If not the counts of ageing?
So while the crowds are gone and the floor is clear
Let's dance while to our graves we're racing
While the crowds are gone and the floor is clear
Let's dance while to our graves we're racing
With my son and my wife, there is a life yet to have been
For you to take it would be obscene

What are days and weeks and months and years
If not the counts of ageing?
While the floor is clear
Let's dance while to our graves we're racing

[David Thomas Broughton + Aidan Moffat]
(With my son and my wife) These words, they come from the heart
(There is a life yet to have been) From the heart that beats in you
[?] (For you to take it)
I will be a loving devotee (Would be obscene)