She's a pornographer's dream, he said.
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I knew what he meant.
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But it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
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He would have, that hadn't been spent?
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Would he still dream of the thigh? of the flesh upon high?
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What he saw so much of?
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Wouldn't he dream of the thing that he never
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Could quite get the touch of?
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It's out of his hands, over his head
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Out of his reach, under this real life
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Hidden in veils, covered in silk
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He's dreaming of what might be
|
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Out of his hands, over his head
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Out of his reach, under this real life
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Hidden in veils,
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He's dreaming of mystery.
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Bettie Page is still the rage
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With her legs and leather;
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She turns to tease the camera, and please us at home,
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And we let her.
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Who's to know what she'll show of herself,
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In what measure?
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If what she reveals, or what she conceals,
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Is the key to our pleasure?
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It's out of our hands, over our heads
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Out of our reach, under this real life
|
Hidden in veils, covered in silk
|
We're dreaming of what might be
|
|
It's out of our hands, over our heads
|
Out of our reach, under this real life
|
Hidden in veils
|
We're dreaming of mystery.
|
|
She's a pornographer's dream, he said.
|
I knew what he meant.
|
But it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
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He would have?
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-----------------
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Pornoghrapher's Dream
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Suzanne Vega |