He was a plain piece of paper. An ordinary smith. The kind that you never. Trifle with. Drawn in wide-eyeliner. A solitary lass. Her beauty veiled by tortoiseshell. And tinted glass. She was a husband collector of. Impeccable taste. She said "My hands are tied. But my glass is chaste". He said "If I were him I'd fill. That to the brim so tell me more". 'Cos that's the kind of talk. That I adore". To lay with you. To lie with you. To live with you. Maybe die with you. As first love fades. Then two then three. I'm certain to be. The Final Mrs. Curtain. There's not enough paper. There's not ink. There are not enough hours. Or poisons to drink. But there are too many. Teardrops still left to cry. And different kinds of kisses to. Help them dry. To lay with you. To lie with you. To live with you. Maybe die with you. As first love fades. Then two then three. I'm certain to see. The Final Mrs. Curtain. To lay with you. To lie with you. To live with you. Maybe die with you. I'm the one who'll hold you. 'til we're through. The Final Mrs. Curtain