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She's decorated in her finest:
spiraling curls, sparkling eyes,
porcelain smooth skin that looks as soft as white silk sheets.
Gracefully, she turns to you a momment.
Not a word hangs on her cherry lips,
but rather a hidden kiss you hope is yours.
Her eyes speak for her;
those pure emeralds seem to sing from their depths:
'Come follow me...'
while she moves down the long corridor (to her door?)
ever a step away from her embrace.
The flurid music of her walk (her curves)
ever sings the siren's lure:

'Come follow me.
There is a window in my room.
Such a pretty view
where you might see flowers in full-bloom.
My garden's flowers
hide away from light,
but soft white petals
will open for the embrace of night.
You're watching me.
"You're prettier than the view," you say.
I feel your eyes
that from my curves never stray.
Hold me close.
With your lips my neck caress.
From a little shell
I want out, I must confess.
I must admit,
I don't enjoy it here...
looking picturesque and mythical.
So whisper in my ear
what you want.
Because I want you to be my sin.
Reveal my true name to me
and I'll let you drink me in.'

"I want that.
You'll be like my special occasion wine
who's aged to perfection
if you let yourself be mine.
It'll be rich,
like the first sip of all bottles in their prime.
Just savor each sensation
and let me drink you in this time,"
you whispered in her ear such words
but instead she slips away from your arms
and the porcelain shell replies:

'I'd be your sweet wine
but you would be my absinthe.
I see La Fée Verte is a Monsieur
a mere mirage caused by trading
wine for wormwood.
After you had drunk your fill of me
you would leave me ill for you.
Delusional and desperate,
always drinking in bitter regret
in hopes for sweeter love.'

"La Fée Verte
is not me. You dare to say such things?
You are the mirage,
the siren, who tempts with what she sings.
Drink me in.
Don't be just a lovely work of art;
a cold porcelain doll.
I swear, I'll love you with all my---"

Monsieur, stop your song.
You sing a lure as well.
And if ever I a siren was,
it was because I was intoxicated
by your cologne, your touch.
I never meant to sing our strange duet.
I'm sorry, but I cannot give in to a siren who's
decorated in his finest:
flattering words, sparkling wine
just because he knows just what to say.
But thank you for a lovely evening, Monsieur.

With that she closes the door
and you're just a dream on her doorstep.
You'll just lie there
on the threshold of what might have been
and you'll just die there
without ever being allowed in.

For she sits as a porcelain doll upon a shelf
looks so beautiful but you can't touch her.