I was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four foot ten in one sock. I was Lola in slacks. I was Dolly at school. I was Dolores on the dotted line. But in his arms I was always Lolita.
And in his arms was always a sin, a seed of evil which he cultivated when we lay alone;
And to the other man's face I was forbidden to speak, for he could be after me, so I was told;
And I, his little nymphette would be gone like a pebble impaling the tender and tranquil surface of a pond, unable to rise again once I was gone.
I was daddy's little whore;
and now here he is knocking at my door.
Like a lost puppy. Yeah, that's what he looked like. One who'd been shut out in the cold. But what did he expect?
If a puppy should desecrate it's master's house it'd be struck and set out in the yard.
He desecrated my soul, my flower, my innocence. He took advantage of my naïveté.
I am Lo, plain Lo, carrying Dick's baby, standing seventeen years with scars deeper than a cutting board. I am Lola, here in my apron. I am Dolly to my child. I am Dolores on the dotted line. But in his arms I am always Lolita.
