You're dangerous, the way in which, a subtle word, your tongue does pick, a smile on, a daggers edge, shy coated memories on which we dredge, up feelings of current circumstance, the lovers last midnight glance, she plucks and strokes a careful tune, a harp that makes the lovers swoon, a *** a tat and time goes on, until the final stroke off an eastern gong,
will it ever be revealed? that which is the truth?
... I really don't want to go babe, but someone else is waiting for this telephone booth!