| Come, let me play with you, black satin dancer |
| In all your giving, given is the answer |
| Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter |
| Than the brightest flower in my garden |
| Begging your pardon — shedding right unreason |
| Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons |
| Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin |
| Bending the minutes — the hours ever turning |
| On that old gold story of mercy |
| Desperate breathing, tongue nipple-teasing |
| Your fast river flowing — your Northern fire fed |
| Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed |
| Black satin dancer |
| Given is the answer |
| Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter |
| Than the brightest flower in my garden |
| Come, let me play with you |
| Come, black satin dancer |
| In all your giving, given is the answer |
| Your fast river flowing — your Northern fire fed |
| Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed |