You looked up at the sky and the clouds were a guy you denied last July. When he cried, didn’t bite, called him child, said goodbye. Weren’t you warned that a cloud is a storm? You forget, you get wet, you forget, you get wet.
And I vow that I won’t be a fool for you now. And I vow I won’t go to the pool with no towel. It feels cold to my toes, then you spin, push me in. You forget, you get wet, you forget, you get wet.
I was soaked to the bone in my clothes, nearly froze, but could not tell you that it was not a good joke. Frozen through, lips were blue, trembling, too, but I knew, you forget, you get wet, you forget, you get wet.
Long ago I was told to control what I hold, not to go and disclose what was bold in my soul. But my feelings for you excepted all the rules. You forget, you get wet, no such thing as "except."
So you stop, wonder why some traditions don’t die: Why do newlyweds all have a ball at the falls? Memory can obsess, memory can oppress. You forget, you get wet, you’re not dead, you’re just wet.
A mistake I will make, it’s a risk I will take. Drive me out to the lake, I will plunge for your sake. Water black, it forbids, water cold, I jump in. I forget, I get wet, and I want to get wet.
Then I hear something splash, coming from the lagoon. Then I see you swim under the glow of the moon. Then I pull you in close and tell you I love you. I forget, I get wet, I get wet, I love you.
I’d say I love you if I knew that there’d be any use.