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, 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?

[Chorus:] It's 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

[Chorus]

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?