She can make you feel like filth She can make you feel like a star
She will scratch till her hand is bloody but she'll love you
more for the scar She remembers the recent past She's
something the cat dragged in She's a trollop in paisley, so,
take her down to the woods where the wolfboy lives, so the
villagers say, and the three of you evaporate into the night till
you both fall in love with him. With a face like an African mask
and the strength of ten men when she's wrong she's in charge in
the world at large and her novels are all very long She belongs
on the astral plane She's probably a hologram Put her back in
the padded cell. So you'll dress head to foot in lame and
you'll dance in December snow When the sky turns to wine
you'll embrace and forget everything that you know She can
tell you the will of the gods Butter won't melt in her mouth,
but you will Don't bother to ask her name. |