All Her Favorite Fruit

From our kitchen, we have this view of our neighbors' window, and yesterday when I saw their exotic assortment of melons, apples and pineapples I thought of the poetic "All Her Favorite Fruit," one of my favorite Camper Van Beethoven songs. I haven't been able to get it out of my mind since. I remember seeing Camper Van Beethoven perform it in concert in 1989 -- 24 years ago! Holy smokes.

I drive alone, home from work
And I always think of her 
Late at night I call her 
But I never say a word 
And I can see her squeeze the phone between her chin and shoulder 
And I can almost smell her breath faint with a sweet scent of decay 

She serves him mashed potatoes 
And she serves him peppered steak, with corn 
Pulls her dress up over her head 
Lets it fall to the floor 
And does she ever whisper in his ear all her favorite fruit 
And all the most exotic places they are cultivated 

And I'd like to take her there, rather than this train 
And if I weren't a civil servant, I'd have a place in the colonies 
We'd play croquet behind white-washed walls and drink our tea at four 
Within intervention's distance of the embassy 
The midday air grows thicker with the heat 
And drifts towards the line of trees 
Where negroes blink their eyes; they sink into siesta 
And we are rotting like a fruit underneath a rusting roof 
We dream our dreams and sing our songs of the fecundity 
Of life and love
Of life and love
Of life and love