Muscle baby, won't let go. Weekend baby, won't say,? No". Is she an active beauty?. I should say so. . Wooden bones and pretty lashes. Iodine for your baby's gashes.
See her picture in a thousand places. 'Cause she's this year's girl. You think, you all own little pieces. Of this year's girl. Forget your fancy manners.
Hear silver trumpets will trill in the Arabic Streets of Seville. Oranges roll in the gutter. And you pick them up. And peel back the skin. To the red fruit within.