My love is black of hair
Quiet eyed and slender
Dresses so debonair
Hands are cold and tender
And she speaks in English
And she dresses in black
My love is a cultured thing
Spending time in museums
Cutting up magazines
Of singers she believes in
And she studies fashions
And she don't look back
My love and I agree
On what to see in the theatre
She's of mixed pedigree
Has exotic features
So she'll always look different
And you know she makes good use of that
She poses for pictures
And her eyes are never closed when it snaps
You make me feel so antique
Like my name is mud, my name is mud
She don't belong to me
You make me feel so weak
Like my name is mud, my name is mud
She don't belong to me
You make me feel so antique
Like my name is mud, my name is mud
She don't belong to me
You make me feel so weak
Like my name is mud, my name is mud
She don't belong to me
But I'll send you a picture of someone who's close to me
My love is a bride to be
We smoke pot on the weekends
She picks out clothes for me
We are Europeans
And she questions religions
And she leaves a key for me under her mat
My love is black of hair
Quiet eyed and slender
Dresses so debonair
Hands are cold and tender
And she doesn't belong
And