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"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 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 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 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 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, 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