Claire Fontaine - Hawksley Workman

I like the paper you make

We were introduced

By a lover of mine

And now she’s gone

But I still have you

Claire Fontaine

Claire Fontaine

You seem to bring

The best out of me

And the things that

I write to sing

Claire Fontaine

Claire Fontaine

Are you a lumberjack or something?

Does your father own a forest

Are the nicest trees for choppin'?

Claire Fontaine

And Claire Fontaine

Your sheets are very smooth

I like to rub my pen across them

Do you feel the way I do

Claire Fontaine?

Claire Fontaine

You seem to bring

The best out of me

In the things that

I write to sing

Claire Fontaine

If newspapers used

Your paper for the news

Things would seem less terrifying

Just because of you

Claire Fontaine

And were you in a garden

When they said the war had started

Do you think you’d write a letter

That would start 'my dear departed…'

Claire Fontaine

Claire Fontaine

You seem to bring

The best out of me

And the things that

I write to sing

Claire Fontaine

Oooh-oh

Claire Fontaine

I’m going home for Christmas

They may refuse me entry

'Cause you’re native to this country

Claire Fontaine

But as a foreigner relinquish

A pad of paper so distinguished

I’d say 'never, never, never

I’ll take this pad of mine to heaven'

Claire Fontaine

Where maybe I would choose

To write a fan letter or two

I might write one to Andy Warhol

And the other one for you

And you could rest assured in knowing

They’d be on your paper too

Claire Fontaine

Who are you?

Claire Fontaine

You seem to bring

The best out of me

And the thing that

I write to sing

Claire Fontaine