Doralice, it’s as I spoke:
To love is but a joke,
Silly and out of control;
I’d rather keep to myself,
Playing my guitar to express my soul.
Doralice, it’s as I spoke:
Look at this mess
I’m going through.
Now, my love, Doralice, my dear,
What is it that we will do?
You came to me one lovely day,
I would have fled, but you made me stay
Something was concerning me,
It even seems I could foresee
I didn’t want you as my wife
To spare our dealing with this strife
Doralice,
Now you must tell me true,
What is it that we will do?