Masters In China

You've always been bashful, Yor're just that way. But your eyes are like billboards, they give you away. You're mouth is a trumpet, somebody else play. Long after the notes gone, the tone ususally stays. And your chest's a fine pillow with lining of feather. Your hair is a family who's strands stick together. Your fingers are keys from the grandest piano, Played by a mind that lord only know. The tongue of an angel floats in red wine saliva. Your teeth are out of porcelain made by masters in China. Your face can't be captured by pictures or words, And your voice is a music that I never heard. And your skin is a cream dipped out beyond measure. Your nose is a peak never touched by the weather. Your fingers are keys from the grandest piano, Played by a soul that the lord only know.