Hawksley Workman - Claire Fontaine Lyrics
Claire FontaineWho are you?I like the paper you makeWe were introducedBy a lover of mineAnd now she's goneBut I still have youClaire FontaineClaire FontaineYou seem to bringThe best out of meAnd the things thatI write to singClaire FontaineClaire FontaineAre you a lumberjack or something?Does your father own a forestAre the nicest trees for choppin'?Claire FontaineAnd Claire FontaineYour sheets are very smoothI like to rub my pen across themDo you feel the way I doClaire Fontaine?Claire FontaineYou seem to bringThe best out of meIn the things thatI write to singClaire FontaineIf newspapers usedYour paper for the newsThings would seem less terrifyingJust because of youClaire FontaineAnd were you in a gardenWhen they said the war had startedDo you think you'd write a letterThat would start 'my dear departed...'Claire FontaineClaire FontaineYou seem to bringThe best out of meAnd the things thatI write to singClaire Fontaineoooh-ohClaire FontaineI'm going home for ChristmasThey may refuse me entry'Cause you're native to this countryClaire FontaineBut as a foreigner relinquishA pad of paper so distinguishedI'd say 'never, never, neverI'll take this pad of mine to heaven'Claire FontaineWhere maybe I would chooseTo write a fan letter or twoI might write one to Andy WarholAnd the other one for youAnd you could rest assured in knowingThey'd be on your paper tooClaire Fontaine,Who are you?Claire FontaineYou seem to bringThe best out of meAnd the thing thatI write to singClaire Fontaine
