To me this emporium
Is sex in memoriam
Where feelings are frozen
And face lotion flows in your veins
You're wrong!
I'm not
You are wrong!
This kind of primping
Is self-service pimping
It's beauty by vendor
And nothing that's tender remains
No, Georges!
It's true!
You're wrong, Georges!
But when the masquerade is through
And you're alone with her
It's clear to you
A woman is not a dress
Or if you see more or less
She isn't her coat or gloves
A woman is how she loves
Don't tell me how high her fashion
Tell me how deep her passion goes
A woman is how she loves
That magic that leaves you weaker
Isn't from wearing chicer clothes
Clothes make the man
Make more money as fast as he can
But I'm not a fan
What a man goes to hell for
Don't go to Chanel for
A woman is how she loves
What makes her an Aphrodite
Isn't the way her nightie flows
Why should I care
If it's Cardin or Gucci or Louvain or Pucci
Who makes what is left on the chair?
None of it's even part of
All that is in the heart of
Woman
What's a woman?
A woman
A woman
A woman is how she loves
A woman is how she loves
Don't count on Balenciaga
Helping you sell monogamy
Dior isn't shy
He would like all his skirts raised up high
How grand! So would I
But who cares where the hems are
If dismal the stems are?
A woman is how she loves
But women who get too slender
Make it confusing tenderly
'Twill be ever was
For some feminine reason
From season to season
You dress for each other, not us
We're more than satisfied
With someone who's lined inside
With women
Lots of women
A woman
A woman
A woman
How she loves