Dream woman

I'm a dream woman, yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah,
dressing the maypole in ribbons and bows
and baubles and tinsel and sweet fairy lights
until beautiful, beautiful, just like you
it grows the soul of a large Christmas tree.

This is the land of grand make-believe
where women are gypsies in love
and men the dispensers of open doors
to the wild and the natural untamed.

Really, oh, really?   Yeah, yeah -yeah,
but you do have to dream to believe
she dances to tunes of loving a fool
while he tinkers away in the fields.

He listens, you see, to each/every tree
but never, no, never, to gypsies and me
and uses the tools of fully grown men
to cut, cut, cut, and run from love.

Yeah, yeah,-yeah, it's a very rush job
and the ground is littered with bits and bobs
and there in that land of grand make-believe
they take on a life of their own.

They rise and they grow and
yeah, yeah- yeah,
into the best of all Christmas trees
because that gypsy was there
sowing the seeds
to prove that love is a... tree!

There you are then, that's that!