Picasso's in the kitchen stirring up a stew 
 He pours himself a bowl and then he fixes me one too 
 And we sit out on the terrace and the birds fly through the trees 
 And he captures them on canvas and I capture them in dreams 
 And we pass a lazy afternoon, as happy as can be 
 With the brushes and the turpentine, just Picasso and me 
 
 He picked me up in Paris; I was scrounging in the streets 
 He shared his cream for coffee, and I curled up at his feet 
 And ever since that moment I've been his confidante 
 He says that it's uncanny how I know just what he wants 
 But we both like our freedom, and quiet company 
 In the end we're not so different, Picasso and me 
 
 Sometimes he gets angry when they say he's just a fraud 
 And he curses at the canvas, and he shakes his fist at God 
 Who are these rogues - who are these fools? 
 Who made this game - who made these rules? 
 
 The critics criticize him and the women come and go 
 They'll never understand him; they don't know what I know 
 They're just too damned demanding, they just won't let him be 
 And I'm glad to see them go, and then it's back to him and me 
 And the lazy summer afternoons, the sunlight through the trees 
 And the brushes and the turpentine and Picasso and me