at the church the flower girl sits,
I made the picture puzzle fit
Painted sister's thumb beside
A word upon her saintly lip
Perhaps admonishing the child inside
Well, 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
singing in my troubled dream
in a post from a magazine
And I have let my pants run
Under a hot and foreign sun
My bare sable brushes drift,
the soft inside of her arm
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift,
I close the door, she is no more,
until the next I find it out
Ain't it promises and stories
singing in my troubled dreams
in a Polish drama magazine
Down at the church my flower girl sits
I'll make the picture puzzle fit,
My golden sable brush is dripped,
the soft inside of her arm
The chin I tilt, her breasts I lift,
I mean no harm, I mean no harm, I mean