Luyện nghe bài hát Closer To You

And maybe you're the Line girl
trying so not to let on you know
I'm looking at the way your toes poke out through your
at funny to your feet
and how you it turns me on

Or you're the Spanish girl
playing with your hair as you for your friend
in that wild octagon of mirrors the Tate calls a shop
And I can smell that from here
and I can see eight different angles
the way your look through that thin black cotton top
reflected to
And oh God, it's places like that and purple-tipped prose like
going to hemorrhage me, girl

Ooo, true:
Girl, I'm doing it to be closer to you

Or maybe you're the bay window
in Wandsworth Town, in ripped jeans and open
painting the difficult corner of an room
white under a naked
leaning across the bar at the top of stepladder
at the precise I'm passing on the steep street
at the bottom of garden in the gathering night
voyeur's

Ooo, true:
Girl, I'm doing it to be closer to you

Or maybe the foundation painter
at the Central School, looking so
I could carry you home in your portfolio
laced up so you won't cry out on the bus
and give the away
tied up lightly, girl
how I knowingly injure someone
with your perfect and wrists, your exquisite structure
Oh, little acrylic painter, I can kiss eggshells, I can be
all the critics say I'm a sensitive singer

Ooo, true:
Girl, I'm only it to be closer to you

And maybe listening to my voice now
on your Walkman or your bedsit
letting my songs slip into you on this quiet
in with your pads of doodles and fingers full of pencils
and low tar
And the light and pleasant so you hardly notice
what I'm about in "Paper Wraps Rock"
And "Murderers, the of Women,"
my voice is just a sound that you
that enters you and leaves you just the
and that's how I it to stay, because, you know

Ooo, true:
Girl, I'm doing it to be closer to you

But some of were bitter records
records which women, girls like you
of your attractiveness wantonly and willfully
to trap and to men
who wanted you and could have you
men who sometimes the perverse urge
to trash the women desired the most
men who imagined they despised all those visions
what crap, what kind of idiot would sing that?
Oh, not me because, you

Ooo, it's
Girl, I'm only doing it to be to you

But sometimes I think every man who writes
every man who paints or composes, soul or symphonies
it makes no difference, all those men are only making do substitutes:
Solomon, Confucius, Franz
they'd never have done it if they'd as beautiful as you
sitting cross-legged there gentle music
lapping around a promise, there where your thighs
of fertility a million couldn't compete with

Ooo, it's
Girl, I'm only doing it to be to you

And all the time I see you
in the eye of my mind, and all that macho stuff
about de Sade and misogyny vanishes into air
and I'm moved to tears like any other sucker
who's been bruised by all the things that to be
and yet who's ready to fall down on his
in front of a woman, and
"Whatever you may do, you may be to me
despite the times we disagree, your ambitions
your conventional
I want you to know I respect you
I you and I want you to accept me
I to kiss you, kiss your stockinged knee
accept the uniquely flesh
on the undersides of hips,"

Ooo, true:
Girl, I'm only doing it to be to you

And I've won you
when fallen down in front of you, and said:
"Damn Franz Kafka, damn the Thin White
(damn the White Duke)
it's you and you I'm doing this for,"
When I'm through with heroes and
(throwing darts in eyes)
you've let me make love to you
the slowest, deepest way I know how
(when you do for me, baby)
and it feels so good (bear me)
that's I'll think of Paul Klee's epitaph:
"Here lies the painter Klee
somewhat closer than usual to the of creation
but far from enough,"

And girl, I lie
far from enough to you...