I don't care for tights, she says
|
and does not tell me why
|
She hikes her skirt above her knee
|
revealing one brown thigh
|
|
I see, I say, and wonder at
|
her slender little fingers
|
How cleverly they pull upon
|
the threads of recent slumbers
|
|
Do you know where friendship ends
|
and passion does begin?
|
It's between the binding of
|
her stockings and her skin.
|
(oh yeah)
|
|
She stayed up so late I thought
|
she'd ask me to go dance
|
But something in the way she laughed
|
told me I had no chance
|
|
The fiction in her family
|
was that she was never nice
|
I'd say she was very
|
I just did not see the price
|
|
Do you know where friendship ends
|
and passion does begin?
|
When the gin and tonic
|
makes the room begin to spin.
|
(oh yeah)
|
|
There may be attraction here
|
but it will never flower
|
So I'm assigned to read her mind, now
|
in this witching hour
|
|
Here's no game for those who claim
|
to be easily bruised
|
But how can I complain
|
when she's so easily amused?
|
|
Do you know where friendship ends
|
and passion does begin?
|
(When she does not show you
|
the way out on the way in) --
|
It's between the binding
|
of her stockings and her skin.
|
(oh yeah)
|
|
-----------------
|
Stockings
|
| Suzanne Vega |
