It doesn’t take much to make me glad:
A dip in a mountain lake, a long walk under stars by the sea.
And it wouldn’t be bad if you loved me.
It doesn’t take much to make me glad:
A bowl of strawberries for dessert; on the piano, a melody.
And it wouldn’t be bad if you loved me.
It doesn’t take much to make me glad:
Thinking about you. Thinking about you every day.
And it wouldn’t be bad if you loved me.
Did I tell you I like Brussels sprouts? And guacamole?
I know. You have your own special recipe.
And it wouldn’t be bad if we had some tea.
I like going places alone. I’m a bit of a loner, but not too bad.
Do you like being alone? Does that make you glad?
How are you under stress? How do you handle the mundane?
I like desire, and I don’t mind the clingy—that’s how much I like desire.
But you have your doubts that you can always be on fire.
And I notice you are not good-natured. That’s going to get worse.
Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be bad if I thought this out more.
This started out as a clever, sentimental song.
How did it go wrong?
Who am I kidding? I made it wrong.
Or maybe this is how it is supposed to go.
I wrote the wise parts fast, the foolish part slow.
