Love is a rose.
Love is a nose, but you better not pick it.
There's a lady plays her fav'rite records/On the jukebox ev'ry day/All day long she plays the same old songs/And she believes the things that they say/She sings along with all the saddest songs/And she believes the stories are real/She lets the music dictate the way that she feels.
Love is a rose.
Love is a nose, but you better not pick it.
Thanks, Mr. Married Man!
I love you so, I always will.
eta the following:
A. The above lyric was a riff; I want no problems with Mrs. B.
2. Tina, does your move to Chicago affect Winfield attendance?
III. I'm off for head-shrinkage. Tank dog for you people; you make me feel almost normal.
What is love? Baby, don't hurt me.
Love. Love will tear us apart. Again.
"Way out in Seattle a young Kurt Cobain
snuck out to the greenhouse and put a bullet in his brain.
Snakes in the grass below our feet, rain in the clouds above.
Some moments last forever...some flare out with love love love."
The love that loves the love that loves to love the love that loves to love the love.
What is love anyway?
Who do you love?
Who loves you? and
Who do you love?
Who loves you, pretty baby? Who's gonna help you through the night?