Оригинален текст
To the doting boys by your side
Riding roughshod on your starless nights.
To she who played concertos, foul and back
upon my heartstrings and never looked-back.
What become of thoose Wild Charms?
The deep fry of the tile?
The tug of the stars?
How it stirs me, oh how it stirs me now.
To think my fire burnt them out.