You know what? fuck Harry Connick Jr.
They're writing songs of love, but not for me.
A lucky star's above, but not for me.
With love to lead the way
I've found more clouds of grey
than any Russain play could guarantee.
I was a fool to fall and get that way;
Heigh-ho! Alas! And also, lack-a-day!
Although I can't dismiss the mem'ry of his kiss,
I guess he's not for me.
He's knocking on a door, but not for me.
He'll plan a two by four, but not for me.
I know that love's a game;
I'm puzzled, just the same,
was I the moth or flame?
I'm all at sea.
It all began so well, but what an end!
This is the time a fella needs a friend,
when ev'ry happy plot ends with the marriage knot,
and there's no knot for me.
It's intended to be a bit self-mocking and amused with one's own foibles, darnit. Connick fucked up his cover of it.