Tropical night malaria moon. Dying stars of the silver screen. Oh she danced that famous gypsy dance. With a hole in her tambourine. I was young enough and dumb enough. I swallowed down my Mickey Finn. She'd hijacked a few hearts all right. I went into a tail spin. Oh don't sing me don't sing me. Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs. Don't sing me don't sing me. Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs. Don't stir it up again. I put my arm around her waist. Says she "Young man you're getting warm". The room was going somewhere without me. And she laughed as she read my palm. Oh don't sing me don't sing me. Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs. Don't sing me don't sing me. Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs. Don't stir it up again. Oh stillborn love passionate dreams pitiful greed. And the silver tongues of the tinker girls. Who throw the book of life at you. But they don't know how to read. She was a third generation Transylvanian. I was the seventh son of a seventh son. I begged the band "Don't play that tune.. Please don't beguine the begun". When I awoke she'd cut and run. She stole my blueprints and my change. Just a horseshoe and a note on the bed. And all it read was "Strange". Don't sing me don't sing me. Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs. Don't sing me don't sing me. Don't sing me don't sing me. Don't sing me no more gypsy love songs. Don't stir it up again