There they go, the good girls, the sweet ones with please and thank you and spring hair and daydreams. There they go, running as fast as they can from their canopied beds and dinner at six, into the arms of a guy with a smirk and a swagger and the promise of bad.
Blame it on the movies. Blame it on Brando. Who wants nice when you can have Brando in a t-shirt, like a god that’s gone slumming? He’s a brute of a man, but ask Stella and she’ll tell you, he got her colored lights going.