What fools we are to wait the wheel of the year, The year will not help our trouble. What fools we are To give our parti-colored hearts to the rain.

I am tired of the slogans now and tired of the saving, I want to dance all night in a brand-new dress And forget about wars and love and the South and courage.

The South is an old high house full of charming ladies, The war is a righteous war full of gallant actions, And love is a white camellia worn in the hair.

But I am tired of talking to charming ladies And the smell of the white camellia, I will dye My hands twice as black as ink in the working waters And wait like a fool for bitter love to come home.

He was wounded this year. They hurt him. They hurt you, darling. I have no doubt she came with a bunch of flowers And talked to your wound and you like a charming lady. I have no doubt that she came.