Bus Stop
G. Gouldman
Bus stop, wet day, she's there, I say,
"Please share my umbrella."
Bus stop, bus goes, she stays, love grows
under my umbrella.

All that summer we enjoyed it,
wind and rain and shine.
That umbrella we employed it.
By August, she was mine.

Every morning I would see her waiting at the stop.
Sometimes she'd shop,
and she would show me what she'd bought.
All the people stared as if we were both quite insane.
Someday my name and hers are going to be the same.

That's the way the whole thing started.
Silly, but it's true.
Thinking of a sweet romance
beginning in a queue.

Came the sun the ice was melting,
no more sheltering now.
Nice to think that that umbrella
led me to a vow.

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