| 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
|
| Oh yeah, 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
|
| Oh yeah, yeah
|
| Oh yeah
|
| Oh yeah, yeah |