The prostitute is pretty, the clients say she's clean
They use her and they pay her, the usual routine
But when her work is over, then comes her turn to shop
She finds the one she dreams of, down at the local hop

Her man is a musician, he'll be a star one day
Embracing his accordion, he plays the world away

He makes music for her but her feet never stir
With her back to the dancefloor, she lingers
There is nothing she sees but his hands on the keys
Such forceful and sensitive fingers
They are under her skin, going out, going in
She's a bud which is waiting to flower
And she's bursting to sing, it's a physical thing
She is in the accordion's power

The prostitute is waiting, the prostitute is true
Her lover is a soldier, and when the war is through
They'll buy a little café in some romantic town
The diners will respect them, she'll wear a satin gown
The man will be the patron, and every night she'll say
"Pick up that old accordion, and play the night away"

Now she feels music rise, in a series of sighs
Welling up from the depths of her being
And the clients who call, they mean nothing at all
For it's only her lover she sees
He is under her skin, going out, going in
She's a bud which waiting to flower
And she's bursting to sing, it's a physical thing
She is in the accordion's power

The prostitute is weeping, the clients must abide
The other girls avoid her, too bad if she should die
Her lover joined the army, the army marched away
And now his body's lying where no musicians play

She wanders 'round the city, she finds a café
Where someone with a squeeze-box
Will play the world away

Now her head is full of sound
And her heart is full of song
And she closes her eyes
And her feet start to move

And it's under her skin, going out in
She has to escape from the music
And she's starting to hell, 'cause it's hurting like hell
So she dances to stamp out the music

And she's starting to hell, 'cause it's hurting like hell
So she dances to stamp out the music

Stop! Stop!
Stop the damn music!

Copyright: Peermusic Publishing, SEMI
Writer(s): Michel Emer