The poor girl sat alone under her sycamore tree,
The poor girl, hand on her heart,
and her head on her knee.
And the river washed by,
and her thoughts would lie in the clouds over the sea,
alone, awake, her mind would race,
into her dreams.
And tear drops fall,
down to the ground where the stones do lie,
and the fish fly by and can hear her sigh:
Breathe, child. Breathe.
Unsure of what the balance held,
the girl grew up into herself,
and met the man,
she always
dreamed to meet.
And he would kiss her endlessly, breathlessly,
she'd fall asleep,
in his arms,
beneath his tender wings.
Breathe, child, breathe.
When the man had got his way he disappeared without a trace,
and the girl is left alone under her sycamore tree.
And tear drops fall.
Breathe, child, breathe.
And the wind cried, Willow, Willow, Willow.
Get your head off the pillow.
And the wind cried, Willow, Willow, Willow.
Get your head off the pillow.
I dreamed a dream, and so it seems that little girls had fantasies.
I dreamed a dream, and so it seems that little girls have fantasies.
Little girls have fantasies.
Look around, look around, look around, look around.
We are all the playthings of men in this town.
Look around, what you'll find, what you'll find, what you'll see
is that men could care less about your fantasies.
Believe me, decieving, coniving, contriving.
Their light can be blinding
with flowers in their hair.
But there's just no trust in a man,
with flowers in their hair.
Pockets full of dust, ain't no trust in a man.

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