"There's no poetry between us,"
Said the paper to the pen.
Something's burning in the attic
That her tongue will not defend.
Through the arc of conversation,
Past the teeth behind the smile,
Down the miracle mile
To the bottom of the ladder;
Paint your eyes and hide the tatters.
What's the matter,
Baby?

Could we go downtown
To the middle of the world?
You were always such a pretty girl
And you told me I was beautiful.

"There's no poetry between us,"
Said the paper to the pen,
"And I get nothing for my trouble
But the ink beneath my skin. "
If your clothes are getting weary,
And your soul's gone out of style,
Blame the miracle mile
And the bottom of the ladder.
Paint your eyes and hide the tatters;
What's the matter,
Baby?

And I'm coming too
And I'm coming too
And I'm coming too
Ooo ooo ooo ooo