"She's a pornographer's dream," he said
I knew what he meant
But it made me imagine what kind of a dream he would have
That hadn't been spent
Would he still dream of the thigh, of the flesh upon high
What he saw so much of?
Wouldn't he dream of the thing that he never could quite
Get the touch of?
Out of his hands
Over his head
Out of his reach
Under this real life
Covered in silk
Dreaming of what might be
Out of his hands
Over his head
Out of his reach
Under this real life
Dreaming of mystery
Bettie Page is still the rage
With her legs and leather
She turns to tease the camera and please us at home
And we let her
Who's to know what she'll show
Of herself, in what measure?
If what she reveals, or what she conceals
Is the key to our pleasure
Out of our hands
Over our heads
Out of our reach
Under this real life
Covered in silk
Dreaming of what might be
It's out of our hands
Over our heads
Out of our reach
Under this real life
Dreaming of mystery
Under this real life
Dreaming of what might be
Under this real life
Dreaming of mystery
"She's a pornographer's dream," he said
I knew what he meant
And it made me imagine what kind of a dream he would have