I live like a monk in an abbey
Ditto, ditto, I hate it
Write to me with sentimental effusion
Let me revel in romantic illusion
Do you still smell of vanilla and spring air?
And is my favorite lover's pillar still firm and fair?
What was there, John, still is there, John
Come soon as you can to my cloister
I've forgotten the feel of your hand
Soon we shall walk in Cupid's Grove together
And we'll fondly survey
That promised land
Till then, till then
I am as I ever was and ever was
And ever shall be
Yours, yours, yours, yours, yours