Abigail:
I live like a nun in a cloister
Solitary, celibate
I hate it
John:
I live like a monk in an abbey
Ditto, ditto
I hate it
Abigail:
Write to me with sentimental effusion
Let me revel in romantic illusion
John:
Do you still smell of vanilla and spring air
And is my favorite lover's pillow
Still firm and fair?
Abigail:
What was there, John
Still is there, John
Come soon as you can to my cloister
I've forgotten the feel of your hand
John:
Soon, madam, we shall walk in Cupid's grove together
Both:
And we'll fondly survey
That promised land
Till then, till then
I am, as I ever was
And ever shall be
Yours
Yours
Yours
Yours
Yours
