When I wake up I want silence, only it knows how to listen to me
It's only in it I can confide in terms of beauty advice
They'd love for me to shut up but I only clothe myself with the verb
The light of the word is in the note that it becomes reverb
I offer myself to it butt-naked like a verse that isn't an alexandrine
And I talk to it with a voice that marries its grain.
I talk about the air, it talks to me in verses of Verlaine
I electronically observe, it likes changeover switches
Lipstick, white smile
Blue methylene Rimmel
It knows that under my hats
I dream of phrygian fingers
Phrygian
Under the pretext that you're pretty, you have to be nice and keep quiet
The circumstantial compliments, it doesn't know how to make them
Under the pretext that you're pretty, you have to be nice and keep quiet
The circumstantial compliments, it doesn't know how to make them
I'd love for it to imagine me in style, rummage through my old clothes
Multiple propositions no article is defined
I talk to it, it doesn't answer, it's a funny sort of seduction
The paradox is that from there I try to make an abstraction
It's in linen and cotton that it composes its prayers
When it reflects little it believes me to be sweet like a comparison
But me, I'd be more than an anacoluthon, I'd be an anaphora
Too bad if the pleonasm ignores my morphology of amphora
Under the pretext that you're pretty, you have to be nice and keep quiet
The circumstantial compliments, it doesn't know how to make them
Under the pretext that you're pretty, you have to be nice and keep quiet
The circumstantial compliments, it doesn't know how to make them