The Trouble With Your Heart

The trouble with your heart

Is that it never stays away,

It follows me around

At the most inconvenient times of day.

I hear your voice at breakfast,

I see your face downtown,

And every time I swear I’m over you,

You somehow come around.

Oh, the trouble with your heart,

It knows exactly where to start,

It slips beneath my careful plans And rearranges every part.

I could lock every door,

I could swear I’ve learned my part,

But I’d still be losing sleep

Over the trouble with your heart.

You don’t even have to call me,

You don’t have to say my name,

One song

on an old jukebox

And I’m playing your game.

Perhaps I should be wiser,

Perhaps I should pretend,

But I’d rather be a fool tonight

Than wonder what might’ve been.

Oh, the trouble with your heart,

It’s the sweetest kind of art,

And if loving you is foolish,

Then I’m foolish

from

the start. (that’s the trouble)