Your love means nothing at all
When I hit back your top spinning ball
And you make a racket about a packet of crisps
And break a few eggs on the court
Your love means nothing at all
You hold up your eyes to the sun, to the sun
Your holy orbs, burning the one
In tents of the desert and curtains that flair
Across the bright present
A ghost of a care
But your love means nothing at all
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