Of all the treasures I could get
From heaven, earth and man,
I'd wish to have a private jet
To take me off when things get out of hand
An when the coming evening surprises me with cold
I'll tell myself: well, darling, tonight you'll lose it all
But tomorrow you'll be in Venice, wearing red,
Tasting the Chiante of some handsome stranger's lips
So don't you worry, honey,
It wasn't something we could keep.

For thus the wheels of heaven spin
And thus the fates are formed
And we are either caught within
Or racing with the storm
And you may win some battles and face defeat in some,
But if you're moving fast enough, the winter never comes
And tomorrow you'll be in Venice, on your own,
Walking and smiling to the people on the street
So don't you worry, honey,
The storm is resting at your feet.