Out riding with Sir Lancelot.
"How'd we end up with what we got?" he says,
scanning the hillside for smoke on the horizon.
I turn to him like Nostradamus, 
point to the stars and say,
"'tis they that bring this fate upon us, dear."

Walking with sweet Casanova,
he asks me why I don't come over anymore;
moonlight in the water in his eyes.
In the light the constellations cast, 
shining, I say "how long did you think it could last?"
I left before the fall.

Across the room gentle d'Artangnan,
by and far my best companion,
rests his head upon his hands to look at me.
"When you leave where do you go?" he says,
his hair about his shoulders.
I say, "darling, one day I'll tell you everything I know...
that I learned long ago..."

In the throes of passion Jesus Christ
took his own name in vain.
Lancelot and Casanova 
still remember my face.
But love, d'Artangnan, jack of hearts,
from you I couldn't tear apart,
so I'll never see my home again.

Memo

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