She has skin of black paper
Perfume with Algiers' scent
She has legs, long and sensuous
She is here, and really she isn't
Slow just like I want her
Stretched out on the white carpet
Like me, she isn't real
Each day living only a few hours
And through the window, Prague, like Algiers
Ripples in the African night
And on the carpet, black paper
And my feverish dreams