Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady`s slipper. Your knees are a southern breeze — or a gust of snow. Agh! what sort of man was Fragonard? — As if that answered anything. — Ah, yes. Below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore — Which shore? — the sand clings to my lips — Which shore? Agh, petals maybe. How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? — the petals from some hidden appletree — Which shore? I said petals from an appletree.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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