| It seems too good to be true
|
| But there’s a girl in Kansas City
|
| With my favourite tattoo
|
| Oh why would I lie to you?
|
| This was in another century
|
| Somewhere near the summer’s end
|
| The fahrenheit was frightening
|
| I was awake the whole weekend
|
| Invited to a barbecue
|
| I found refuge in the kitchen
|
| Discussing post-war US literature
|
| With a girl whose upper arm read «fiction»
|
| Like it might have been typewritten
|
| I asked her its significance
|
| She said she sometimes took reminding
|
| What she wanted to be doing
|
| Whether reading it or writing
|
| I admitted admiration
|
| For both typeface and intent
|
| And said more softly — sotto voce —
|
| I knew too well what she meant
|
| She just smiled
|
| And in a while she went
|
| For a time I forgot this ever took place
|
| She left her bottle on the bookcase
|
| So though I leave you little option
|
| But to take me at my word
|
| I assure you, dearest listener
|
| That it happened as you’ve heard
|
| A beer left on a bookshelf
|
| At a bygone barbecue
|
| By a girl from Kansas City
|
| With my favourite tattoo
|
| Oh why would I lie to you?
|
| Oh why would I lie to you?
|
| Oh why would I lie? |