|
She paints her fingers with a close precision |
|
He starts to notice empty bottles of gin |
|
And takes a moment to assess the sins she's paid for |
|
A lonely speaker in a conversation |
|
Her words are swimming through his ears again |
|
There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you paid for |
|
Say what you mean |
|
Tell me I'm right |
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And let the sun rain down on me |
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Give me a sign |
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I want to believe |
|
Woah, Mona Lisa |
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You're guaranteed to run this town |
|
Woah, Mona Lisa |
|
I'd pay to see you frown |
|
He senses something, call it desperation |
|
Another dollar, another day |
|
And if she had the proper words to say, |
|
She would tell him |
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But she'd have nothing left to sell him |
|
Mona Lisa wear me out |
|
I'm pleased to please ya |
