Le magasin de porcelaine

I’m in the mood for a rumble, a loud one
Often I’m told I overdo it
But here I am brooding and without warning it all swells up
In my crater
I’m a little volcano who seems nice but
If I you push me too close to the edge
Lava, lava, lava will come out
Lava, lava, lava there will be
And I will explode
Like a bat out of hell, it explodes, without me even trying
To stop the elephant at the door of the china-shop
Why would I want to control, politely polish
My bitter-sweet rough edges?
Nice round vowels, without the gift of the gab
Are not worth much to me
It’s the paradoxes, the contrasts, the shades of grey
And all the rest
That gave me my character
Storms, storms will come
Storms, storms, storms there will be
In my atmosphere
But when your hands, like flamingos' wings
Embrace my porcelain cheeks
Love, love, love there is
Love, love, love there will be
In S. T. O. R. E