yves saint laurent

 

He’s beautiful like a painting,
From 15th-century Florence,
I can see his eyes, so despondent,
Pouring on his tie, Saint Laurent.

He’s leaving me here, fainting,
Guess I’ll drown in imagination,
Yes, that’s you, my only religion,
Even if you’re Machiavellian.

Oh, the whole fashion legacy,
Buried deep inside his eyes,
Like Saint Laurent if he’s still alive,
Saint Laurent if he’s still alive.

But now I dig deep into your soul,
The world trembling in sorrow
Closing my eyes, he gently said,
"This is the only truth untold."

"I need something to escape from my own,
It was me, my own tormentor.
It is you, my only guider,
In this game of thrones, you’re my owner."

Oh, the whole fashion legacy,
Buried deep inside his eyes,
Like Saint Laurent if he’s still alive,
Saint Laurent if he’s still alive.