From the recording Between the Wars

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Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning I have found crying like a baby
Tear-blue eyes and rolling dice, a ribbon from my lady’s gown

Through the garden willows weave a basket for her hours
She dances softly as a child over memories of flower and leaves

Sunday Morning has no shame, her passion is bold
To Sunday Morning a wild bird sang of love once long ago

The Queen of Hearts, the Joker Wild, fruits are o’er the vine
A kiss of nectar to the sky, her flesh so divine is defiled

The world evolves through the light of an ancient fire
Sunday Morning unveiled her breasts in her maiden lair last night