Teksty: Poets Of The Fall. Miss Impossible.

She can see about four satellites
Every minute of the hour,
And find a four leaf clover
Where you never saw a flower.
She’s habitually paradoxical, a Parallel Perpendicular.

Barefoot in nightgowns, that’s how she dances in the rain;
Sundown to Sundown, like she was washing away her pain…

As she is beatiful, she’s unpredictable;
Damned irresistible, is it plausible to hate her?
She is my common sense, revels on decadence,
But what’s the difference? It’s impossible to bait her.

She can really be a handful,
Like the brownies that she bakes you…
It can be a tad hysterical,
But never quite the breakthrough;
She’s some kind of an epitome, the sea of intranquility.

In flimsy nightgowns, barefoot she dances in the rain;
Sundown to Sundown, like she was washing away her pain…

As she is beatiful, she’s unpredictable,
Damned irresistible, is it plausible to hate her?
She is my common sense, revels on decadence,
But what’s the difference? It’s an impossible debate.

As she is beautiful…

Barefoot in nightgowns, that’s how she dances in the rain;
Sundown to Sundown, like she was washing away her pain…
In flimsy nightgowns, barefoot she dances in the rain;
Sundown to Sundown, like she was washing away her pain…

As she is beautiful…