Is it a sin? Is it a crime? Loving you dear like I do?
If it's a crime then I'm guilty, guilty of loving you.
Maybe I'm wrong, dreaming of you. Dreaming the lonely night through.
If it's a crime then I'm guilty, guilty of dreaming of you.
What can I do? What can I say? After I've taken the blame?
You'll say you're through. You'll go your way. But I'll always feel just the same.
Maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm wrong. Loving you dear like I do.
If it's a crime then I'm guilty, guilty of loving you.
That's "Guilty" by Russ Columbo. Certainly the best thing that came of me inheriting a copy of the Amelie soundtrack.
I want to dance to big-band music, and tip the head man to play something I like. I want white gloved waiters to pour champagne into my glass, with smartly folded napkins draped over their arms. I want to smoke cigarettes out of an enamel cigarette holder, perpetually wearing a sly grin. I want to never want the transatlantic cruise to end. I want to be the only gentleman to successfully woo the picturesque starlet with the lovely lilting singing voice back to my stateroom. I want to silently enjoy this honor at the bar with the jealous gentlemen who buy me expensive scotch and subtly pump me for details I will never disclose. I want to have my steamer truck placed in the back of my car, while I wait next to the balloon whitewalls for my driver to open the door for me. I want to pick up the paper the next morning and decry the simplicity of the crossword puzzle, which I will finish before reading a single news item. I want to stand alone at a window in my living room, looking out at old New York from a great height with a cigarette and a glass of whiskey. I will know that somewhere out there a young woman is on the cusp of a whirlwind romance with me, a romance doomed from the start by my propensity to smoke cigarettes, take transatlantic cruises, dance with young lovelies, woo silk voiced starlets, and just be...alone.
If it's a crime then I'm guilty, guilty of loving you.
Maybe I'm wrong, dreaming of you. Dreaming the lonely night through.
If it's a crime then I'm guilty, guilty of dreaming of you.
What can I do? What can I say? After I've taken the blame?
You'll say you're through. You'll go your way. But I'll always feel just the same.
Maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm wrong. Loving you dear like I do.
If it's a crime then I'm guilty, guilty of loving you.
That's "Guilty" by Russ Columbo. Certainly the best thing that came of me inheriting a copy of the Amelie soundtrack.
I want to dance to big-band music, and tip the head man to play something I like. I want white gloved waiters to pour champagne into my glass, with smartly folded napkins draped over their arms. I want to smoke cigarettes out of an enamel cigarette holder, perpetually wearing a sly grin. I want to never want the transatlantic cruise to end. I want to be the only gentleman to successfully woo the picturesque starlet with the lovely lilting singing voice back to my stateroom. I want to silently enjoy this honor at the bar with the jealous gentlemen who buy me expensive scotch and subtly pump me for details I will never disclose. I want to have my steamer truck placed in the back of my car, while I wait next to the balloon whitewalls for my driver to open the door for me. I want to pick up the paper the next morning and decry the simplicity of the crossword puzzle, which I will finish before reading a single news item. I want to stand alone at a window in my living room, looking out at old New York from a great height with a cigarette and a glass of whiskey. I will know that somewhere out there a young woman is on the cusp of a whirlwind romance with me, a romance doomed from the start by my propensity to smoke cigarettes, take transatlantic cruises, dance with young lovelies, woo silk voiced starlets, and just be...alone.
VIEW 25 of 44 COMMENTS
lilyk:
mixed weekend- better than being here 
vuokko:
I do not have that kind of time. I wich someone would start one, though! It would be really cool. Liger is a great group owner-- we need someone like her, but more obsessed with the Big L.