He’s looking rather pious | Stiff collar sallow skin | Muttering versus, sputtering curses | Sweat dripping down his neck | I go oh uh oh oh uh oh oh oh | He’s got his nose pressed to the glass | Little girls tugging skirt hems, holding hands | They go oh uh oh, oh uh oh oh oh | He calls me little Lolita | A born again believer | When he stops I go | When I hush he’ll know | He says don’t even try it | put your hands in your lap | and I’m pretty as a picture, neat as a pin | No more oh uh oh, oh uh oh oh oh | He's got a strong grip and a righteous hand | He calls me little Lolita | A born again believer | When he stops I go | When I hush he’ll know | He makes a pass at a waitress | She leaves a lipstick stain on the glass | Pretty as a picture, neat as a pin | Does he call her little Lolita?
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