Sunday in the Park with George - Annaleigh Ashford

George,

Why is it you always get to sit in the shade

While I have to stand in the sun

Hello, George

There is someone in this dress

A trickle of sweat

The back of the head

He always does this

Now the foot is dead

Sunday in the park with George

One more Su--

The collar is damp

Beginning to pinch

The bustle’s slipping

I won’t budge one inch

Who was at the zoo George

Who was at the zoo

The monkeys and who George

The monkeys and who

Don’t move

Artists are bizarre, fixed, cold

That’s you, George

You’re bizarre, fixed cold

I like that in a man

Fixed, cold

God, it’s hot up here

Well, there are worse things

Than staring at the water on a Sunday

There are worse things

Than staring at the water

As you’re posing for a picture

Being painted by your lover

In the middle of the summer

On an island in the river on a Sunday

The petticoat’s wet

Which adds to the weight

The sun is blinding

All right, concentrate

Eyes open please

Sunday in the park with George

Look out at the water, not at me

Sunday in the park with George

Well, if you want bread

And respect

And attention

Not to say connection

Modeling’s no profession

If you want instead when you’re dead

Some more public and more permanent expression

Of affection

You want a painter, poet, sculptor preferably

Marble, granite, bronze

That’s durable forever

All it has to be is good

And George, you’re good

You’re really good

George’s stroke is tender

George’s touch is pure

Your eyes, George

I love your eyes, George

I love your beard, George

I love your size, George

But most, George, of all

But most of all

I love your painting

I think I’m fainting

The tip of a stay

Right under the tit

No, don’t give in

Just lift the arm a bit

Don’t life the arm, please

Sunday in the park with George

The bustle high, please

Not even a nod

As if I were trees

The ground could open

He would still say «please»

Never know with you George

Who could know with you

The others I knew George

Before we get through

I’ll get to you too

God I am so hot

Well, there are worse things

Than staring at the water on a Sunday

There are worse things

Than staring at the water

As you’re posing for a picture

After sleeping on the ferry

After getting up at seven

To come over to an island

In the middle of a river

Half an hour from the city

On a Sunday

On a Sunday in the park with…

Don’t move the mouth

(mouth shut) George