Tekstovi: Hawksley Workman. Claire Fontaine.

Clair Fontaine
Who are you?

I like the paper you make
We were introduced
By a lover of mine
And now she's gone
But I still have you
Clair Fontaine

Clair Fontaine
You seem to bring
The best out of me
And the things that
I write to sing
Clair Fontaine

Clair Fontaine
Are you a lumberjack or something?
Does your father own a forest
Are the nicest trees for choppin'?
Clair Fontaine
And Clair Fontaine
Your sheets are very smooth
I like to rub my pen across them
Do you feel the way I do
Clair Fontaine?

Clair Fontaine
You seem to bring
The best out of me
In the things that
I write to sing
Clair Fontaine

If newspapers used
Your paper for the news
Things would seem less terrifying
Just because of you
Clair Fontaine
And were you in a garden
When they said the war had started
Do you think you'd write a letter
That would start 'my dear departed...'
Clair Fontaine

Clair Fontaine
You seem to bring
The best out of me
And the things that
I write to sing
Clair Fontaine

oooh-oh
Clair Fontaine
I'm going home for Christmas
They may refuse me entry
'Cause you're native to this country
Clair Fontaine
But as a foreigner relinquish
A pad of paper so distinguished
I'd say 'never, never, never
I'll take this pad of mine to heaven'
Clair Fontaine

Where maybe I would choose
To write a fan letter or two
I might write one to Andy Warhol
And the other one for you
And you could rest assured in knowing
They'd be on your paper too
Clair Fontaine,
Who are you?

Clair Fontaine
You seem to bring
The best out of me
And the thing that
I write to sing
Clair Fontaine