Let fall your soft and swaying skirt. Let fall your shoes. Let fall your shirt. I'm not the ladykilling sort enough to hurt a girl in port.
Marie's gone blonde and lost a stone. She lay on her lawn, spun and alone. And, when the morning sun it rose upon Marie in her lacy clothes, it lit her up, and she walked around the winding streets of Camden Town. She doesn't know who she wants to be, and if I knew, I'd tell Marie.
Cindy tells me she's had fun sitting backstage, someone's plus one. Up in her room the records spin, needle in the grooves that she's worn thin. She lifts a sleeve and sees a name, and she's got a smile on her face, and she's got a story you can't see: it's just between that name and Cindy.
And before Holly made her way over the sea and far away - she's telling me, inside her car, driving us back from the Crystal Corner bar - "I lost it there, I fell from health, cut some fresh pieces from myself. And then, for a second, something in me said, 'Leave today. It's time, Holly.'"
Well, I'm a weak and lonely sort, though I'm not sailing just for sport. I've come to feel, out on the sea, these urgent lives press against me. I'm just a guest. I'm not a part, with my tender head, with my easy heart. These several years out on the sea have made me empty, cold, and clear. Pour yourself into me.
Let fall your soft and swaying skirt. Let fall your shoes. Let fall your shirt. I'm not the lady-killing sort enough to hurt a girl in port.
