Paroles: Beirut. Cliquot.

A plague in the workhouse, a plague on the poor now
I feed on my drum 'til I'm dead
Yesterday fever, tomorrow St. Peter
I'll feed on my drum until then

What melody will lead my lover from his bed?
What melody will see him in my arms again?

Set fire the foundation and burn out the station
You'll never get nothing of mine
The pane of my window will flicker and glimmer
I won't leave a stitchin' behind

Oh, what melody will lead my lover from his bed?
What melody will see him in my arms again?

I'll sing of the walls of the well and the house at the top of the hill
I'll sing of the bottles of wine that we left on our old windowsill
I'll sing of the years you will spend getting sadder and older, oh love
And the cold beyond the rainfall