She's a pornographer's dream, he saidnI knew what he meantnBut it made me imagine what kind of a dream he would havenThat hadn't been spentnnWould he still dream of the thigh, of the flesh upon highnWhat he saw so much of?nWouldn't he dream of the thing that he never could quitenGet the touch of?nnOut of his handsnOver his headnOut of his reachnUnder this real lifenHidden in veils nCovered in silknDreaming of what might bennOut of his handsnOver his headnOut of his reachnUnder this real lifenHidden in veilsnDreaming of mysterynnBettie Page is still the ragenWith her legs and leathernShe turns to tease the camera and please us at homenAnd we let hernnWho's to know what she'll shownOf herself, in what measure?nIf what she reveals, or what she concealsnIs the key to our pleasurennOut of our handsnOver our headsnOut of our reachnUnder this real lifenHidden in veilsnCovered in silknDreaming of what might bennIt's out of our handsnOver our headsnOut of our reachnUnder this real lifenHidden in veilsnDreaming of mysterynnUnder this real lifenDreaming of what might bennUnder this real lifenDreaming of mysterynnShe's a pornographer's dream, he saidnI knew what he meantnAnd it made me imagine what kind of a dream he would havennn