Sipping a drink from the scalloped punchbowl
I feel like I feel something under my skin.
I fear I must, before settling down for lunch, go
Check to be sure it's my own skin I'm in.
Some aspiring Pygmalion or some kind of alien
I can't tell which but it's one or the other.
And I don't know if this point is even salient,
Far from punch drunk, I'll check this out further.
Occasionally things will get under my skin
Working me up into a tizzy or lather.
I wonder if it could possibly be my girlfriend
Between her and all other, it's her I'd rather.
She is the one, 'tho maybe she don't know it
That has burrowed the deepest beneath my skin.
And maybe more often, I ought to show it.
'Cause she's been to my heart, and I let her in.
She never knocks, she just picks the locks
And sashays right in, pretty as you please
She takes off her shoes (but never her socks)
As she saucily enters, completely at ease.
Now if you don't think it would lead you to drink
From a scalloped punchbowl that has been spiked
You let someone in wearing pastels of pink
And see if you don't get thoroughly psyched.
Now where did I begin. Oh yes, she's under my skin
She's in my heart and.ahem. many other places
And if you were my shape or the shape that I'm in
You would welcome a gal with such elegant graces.
I could go on all day expounding this way
But everything must come to an end.
She has so much class, let me just say
She's a delicate delightful potpourri blend!
