She-‘s Standing Like A Rock, In The Middle Of A Flood, Don-‘t You Call It Home.
Old People Warn Us, At Night They Hear Shrieks Of Burning Dolls.
But Young Men Don-‘t Listen, They Wade In, Like Instruments Of Seduction.
She Keeps Painting Her Portrait, A Wicked Girl, With A Lot Of Pet Monkeys.
I Like Girls Who Laugh, Who Don-‘t Cross The Calendar Every Night,
But She Laughs Like A Gypsy, Don-‘t Think She Can Be Possessed At All.
Then She Half Veils A Smile, Like A Famous Painting,
I-‘m Watching Her From A Distance, Thinking,
Maybe Mona Lisa Wasn-‘t Meant To Be Satisfied.

She Used My Sorrow In A Poem, And I Forgot To Cry,
I Wandered Lost In Her Sand Tumbler, In Her Fine Balance Of Time.
The Air Here Is Sour, Always Tastes Of A Dead Joker.
Someone-‘s Always Crying, Trying To Pick, Another Last Laugh Line.