The appleskin red gloves, the heels, the dart of cigarette, the tights, the satin skirt

That oriental girl who walks away
with purpose from the office I go to -
Our paths cross. We run each other through
with shadows, around 5 o'clock each day.
But though we do the same degrading work,
it's only her who doesn't look the part.
The appleskin red gloves, the heels, the dart
of cigarette, the tights, the satin skirt.
Her figure's an explosion to my dud.
Her body's stuffed with secrets. Mine is stark.
Her beauty boards and ridicules the ark
I'm building in the middle of the flood.

So don't misunderstand me - it ain't sex
I want from her. It's just the boarding tax