Florence in the Floorboards

There is a place that has no name
Somewhere off the coast of Montpellier
Someday we’ll throw our phones like skipping stones
Off a pier that would’ve made Monet moan
And we can build a house for two
Popsicle sticks and a little glue
Long as it’s you, dear, I’m here to stay

And if the taxman comes around
Tell him that we both went fishing down
There at the flea market for compliments
We’ll be the best-dressed pests in all of France
Eating honey and mascarpone in the morning
Visiting Nina Simone when it’s pouring rain
What do you say?

We’ll hide Florence in the floorboards
And pour Paris in our glasses
Grow Tarragona on the terrace ‘till the air smells like molasses
We’ll rub shoulders with sculptors
And I’ll tend to your rashes
Oh, at last, this silly little world is ours
At last, this silly little world is ours