You can't write a novel from a briefcase,

you can write a poem from a trench,

you can dream a dream from A to B,

but you can't catch a bus from a bench.



You don't back a horse called Striding Snail,

you don't name your boat Titanic II.

So why when I see your happy smiling face,

do I always end up singing Little Blue.



Little Blue, how do you do.

Your smile looks like heaven,

but your eyes hold a storm about to brew.

Little Blue,

how can a flower so pretty,

be so laden down with dew.

Little Blue,

how can a flower so beautiful,

be wo laden down with dew.

Little Blue.



You can't build a brewery on a cemetary,

you can build a pub on a church,

and people fall quicker than buildings do,

you have to decide what comes first.



You don't call a plane the Flying Roman,

'cause the Romans always walked and never flew.

So why when I see your happy smiling face,

do I always end up singing Little Blue.



Little Blue, how do you do.

Your smile looks like heaven,

but your eyes hold a storm about to brew.

Little Blue,

how can a flower so pretty,

be so laden down with dew.

Little Blue,

how can a flower so beautiful,

be wo laden down with dew.

Little Blue.



Well Bukowski wrote a story from a barstool,

and Keats from the top af a hill.

So I'm going to save my special song for you,

from a grave where it's quiet and it's chill.



'Cause there's a queue of clouds assembled

on the horizon of your smile.

Where most think that your holding back,

I know your holding bile.



Little Blue, how do you do.

Your smile looks like heaven,

but your eyes hold a storm about to brew.

Little Blue,

how can a flower so pretty,

be so laden down with dew.

Little Blue,

how can a flower so beautiful,

be wo laden down with dew.

Little Blue