Sunday in the Park with George

More boats

More trees

I thought you were drawing me?

George?

Hello, George?

Huh, 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—, ah

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?

Ah, 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 out 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

Huh, the sun is blinding, hmmm

Alright, concentrate

Eyes open, please

Mmm, Sunday in the park with George

Look out at the water, not at me

Sunday in the park with George

Concentrate, concentrate

Huh, 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, durable

Something nice with swans 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, huh

Lift the arm a bit

Don't lift the arm

Sunday in the park with George

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

George