It's my suggestion to you, sir,
That you take your pretty words
And throw them far across the room
Before approaching her
'Cause she's a tendril-demon, trickster child
And she'll stretch you out for miles
And more to go before you sleep your winks
She doesn't use words

Well there's a bit in your martini glass
A dust upon your hair, as if
Some vixen's cast her spell on you
But left you hanging there
And you've got words still crawling in your throat
You idiot savant
You have to stop the disco, ask yourself
Is this what you really want?
Go talk yourself into a coma
You're no white tie affair
She'll crush your roses underfoot
And strip their petals bare
Mr. Shakespeare, all your sonnets
Aren't worth a damn to her—
She doesn't use words

Hear her dance upon the stairs
Hear her dance upon the stairs

There's one objection to you, sir,
Why don't you take those pretty words
And shove them back into your eyes
Before you dare approaching her
'Cause she's the answer to your cancer
Tiny dancer, she goes faster
With your body, you should ask her
To dance . . .

'Cause she doesn't use words


"I may seem unapproachable, but that's only to the boys who don't have the right approach that makes a girl like me wanna hop in and roll" --- Sexy, Naughty, Bitchy by Tata Young