Tan Lines and Takelines

Tan lines, tan lines — golden everywhere but one.

There's a little band of winter where the meetings never done.

I was bronze by the fourth of July,

mahogany by August — except this stripe of January,

buzzing on my wrist.

It buzzed at the beach,

it buzzed in the sea,

it buzzed at my daughter's sandcastle — she built a tower for

me.

Take it off. (He can't take it off.) Take it off.

(He won't take it off.)

Tan lines, tan lines — and when they lay me in the

sun at last, they'll know just where the office was.

They'll know just where the office was.