Too marvelous for words.
Day in, day out. That same old voodoo follows me about.
That old black magic has me in its spell, That old black magic that you weave so well; Icy fingers up and down my spine, The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine.
You must write for the waste basket.
Come rain or come shine.
You must have been a beautiful baby, 'Cos baby just look at you now.