All Her Favorite Fruit (orchestral Version) Lyrics - Camper Van Beethoven Is Dead, Long Live Camper Van Beethoven - Camper Van Beethoven

I drive alone, home from work 

And I always think of her 

Late at night I call her 

But I never say a word 

And I can see her squeeze the phone between her chin and shoulder 

And I can almost smell her breath faint with a sweet scent of decay 

She serves him mashed potatoes 

And she serves him peppered steak, with corn 

Pulls her dress up over her head 

Lets it fall to the floor 

And does she ever whisper in his ear all her favorite fruit 

And all the most exotic places they are cultivated 

And I'd like to take her there, rather than this train 

And if I weren't a civil servant, I'd have a place in the colonies 

We'd play croquet behind white-washed walls and drink our tea at four 

Within intervention's distance of the embassy 

The midday air grows thicker with the heat 

And drifts towards the line of trees 

Where negroes blink their eyes, they sink into siesta 

And we are rotting like a fruit underneath a rusting roof 

We dream our dreams and sing our songs of the fecundity of life and love 

Of life and love 

Of life and love