tip of the bomb

San Fransisco Girl

You wear your make-up like Hemingway
You're a minimalist in every sense
You talk about yourself in third-person
Your future in present-tense
And your soft summer dresses hang so loose
But they don't hide your shape
You walk like a swan down on the pier
You're a swan among the apes
And the fishmonger's sons all call your name
You don't hear them through your curls
You're my beaded and baubled and beautiful baby
My San Fransisco Girl

You've read all your Jean-Paul Sartre
Your Kafka and your Camus
You're a philosopher in dungarees
And your a poet in plastic shoes
You carry your purse like a Catholic curse
Your bag it drags you down
It's filled with all the garbage and the trinkets and the junk
You need to get by in this town
And graffiti boys they paint your face
You don't see them through your curls
You're my tripped-out, flipped-out, drug-tongued baby
My San Francisco Girl

Your voice soft like the morning fog
Your laugh like a big brass band
You got seven silk scarves wrapped around your wrist
And velvet gloves on both your hands
You got a Spanish belt made of Cuban leather And a holster on your hip
You got Italian glasses made in Taiwan
To match your painted lips
And your face is sculpted in a block of salt
Behind your sticky, cherry curls
You're my lovely, lonely one and only
My San Francisco Girl

Black tights on white dancer's legs
Bone bracelets on your wrists
I love to watch your wooden toes
I love to see them twist
You got red roses landing at your feet
Tears in your sweet eyes
And your French perfume, just like a flower blooms
Whenever you walk by
Red ribbon streamers in your hair
Twistin' through your curls
Your my ballerina, my signorina
My San Francisco Girl

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