She's a p___ographer'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? 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

It's out of his hands, over his head out of his reach, under this real life
hidden in veils, 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?
Iif 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 p___ographer's dream, he said. I knew what he meant.
And it made me imagine: what kind of a dream he would have?

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