If I run out of paper, let me write on a cloud.
First thing in the morning, in the outskirts of Ireland,
A child will rise to read my verses aloud,
He’ll weep at our love and the sky will turn violet.
I want to marry you over and over, each day.
Birds will sing and deer will eat from your hand.
In the middle of March, green birches will sway
And we’ll sprawl out and tan on the sand.
We’ll dance without music, find reasons to sing,
And travel the world to quench all our cravings.
Our trees will grow money during the spring, -
We’ll rake leaves in autumn to gather our savings.
I promise you -- I’ll milk the Milky Way dry,
Picking out pearls to make you a necklace…
And if we awake before pigs learn to fly, -
Well, at least, there’ll be bacon for breakfast.