Harvest On A Sunday Songtext
von Myths of a Thistle

I was in Portugal every day of your trip
I was the cigarettes burning away on your lips
I was the ferry blowing its horns in the mist
I was the handsome bullfighter blowing that kiss


I was the equity needed for your loan of bliss
I was the salt in the sea that you couldn′t resist
I was the congressman who stopped the pass of the bill
I was the mosquito causing you to be ill

Now here I am to harvest you on a Sunday
In a song

Send me a letter now send me a letter my love
You might have guessed it I am the carrier dove
Swing by the ocean, swing with me, swing with me
Swing with me, swing with me, swing with me

Now here I am to harvest you on a Sunday
In a song