"She's a pornographer's dream," he said   I knew what he meant   But it made me imagine what kind of a dream he would have   That hadn't been spent      Would he still dream of the thigh, of the flesh upon high   What he saw so much of?   Wouldn't he dream of the thing that he never could quite   Get the touch of?      Out of his hands   Over his head   Out of his reach   Under this real life   Hidden in veils    Covered in silk   Dreaming of what might be      Out of his hands   Over his head   Out of his reach   Under this real life   Hidden in veils   Dreaming of mystery      Bettie Page is still the rage   With her legs and leather   She turns to tease the camera and please us at home   And we let her      Who's to know what she'll show   Of herself, in what measure?   If what she reveals, or what she conceals   Is the key to our pleasure      Out of our hands   Over our heads   Out of our reach   Under this real life   Hidden in veils   Covered in silk   Dreaming of what might be      It's out of our hands   Over our heads   Out of our reach   Under this real life   Hidden in veils   Dreaming of mystery      Under this real life   Dreaming of what might be      Under this real life   Dreaming of mystery      "She's a pornographer's dream," he said   I knew what he meant   And it made me imagine what kind of a dream he would have