(Brooker / Reid)
|
We skipped the light fandango
|
turned cartwheels 'cross the floor
|
I was feeling kinda seasick
|
but the crowd called out for more
|
The room was humming harder
|
as the ceiling flew away
|
When we called out for another drink
|
the waiter brought a tray
|
And so it was that later
|
as the miller told his tale
|
that her face, at first just ghostly,
|
turned a whiter shade of pale
|
She said, 'There is no reason
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and the truth is plain to see.'
|
But I wandered through my playing cards
|
and would not let her be
|
one of sixteen vestal virgins
|
who were leaving for the coast
|
and although my eyes were open
|
they might have just as well've been closed
|
She said, 'I'm home on shore leave,'
|
though in truth we were at sea
|
so I took her by the looking glass
|
and forced her to agree
|
saying, 'You must be the mermaid
|
who took Neptune for a ride.'
|
But she smiled at me so sadly
|
that my anger straightway died
|
If music be the food of love
|
then laughter is its queen
|
and likewise if behind is in front
|
then dirt in truth is clean
|
My mouth by then like cardboard
|
seemed to slip straight through my head
|
So we crash-dived straightway quickly
|
and attacked the ocean bed
|
|
-----------------
|
A Whiter Shade Of Pale
|
| Procol Harum |
