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?



It's out of his hands, over his head

Out of his reach, under this real life

Hidden in veils, covered in silk

He's dreaming of what might be



Out of his hands, over his head

Out of his reach, under this real life

Hidden in veils,

He's 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?



It's out of our hands, over our heads

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

He would have?