The pupil is twelve, attractive withdrawn In a midnight blue school uniform Lips just a little too full for her face Distant eyes full of space In her posture no trace of coquette No defiance
She fingers the frets looking forlorn Crossing her legs where her tights have been torn Starts as her mother comes into the room And the afternoon grows still And her mother feels a chill Shivers and buttons her coat
I gently correct the curve of her back And open her book in the now empty flat At the classical piece I've had her prepare And her arms are bare as she plays And I draw back behind her ear A few strands of hair gone astray
She shows me her bracelet, the lesson is done I turn it around between finger and thum We sit face to face and it seems to me that Her face is the face of a cat And touching the place where her breasts will be I press my hand flat
She comes into my lap, I turn her around Her hands clasp my neck and her feet skim the ground Her skirt travels up under my palm But the pupil sits looking so calm As if listening to the distant sound of a burglar alarm.
What happened next it's hard to recall The guitar lesson left no traces at all Now from afar it seems to resemble A strange composition in oil Of a man, a guitar and an innocent little girl
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