Down at the church the flower girl sits. Legs innocent, apart. I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart. Painted sister stopped beside. A word upon her saintly lip. Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.
I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night. It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out the light. No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
I have touched that face a dozen times before. And I have let my pencil run. Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun. My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm. Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
I close the door. She is no more until the next appointed hour. Northeastern light push back the night: painted promises in store. No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
Down at the church my flower girl sits. Legs innocent, apart. I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart. My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm. Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm. I mean no harm. I mean...Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
