She is the book I read, the colour to me
Shes the tide, hers is the sea
Things I say dictated by the mood
Things she wants
There the things I do

She is the power of my senses
The weakness of my mind
Thoughts as I sleep
Are just wreckage that she finds
Putting them together the richest tapestry
Find a collage a cathedral for me, yeah

She is calling no matter where I am
Holding, in a gypsy spell
Haunting with whispers and with smiles
Worship her like a poet needs a pain

Like an addict needs a drug
Like a poet needs your love

Like the desert needs the rain
Like the blind man needs his cane