Semolina
Semolina

Semolina
Loves the seashells
At the shore she
Loves the seashells

She can see the silver
Sometimes shining on the sea
Reflecting from the flying fishes
Wishing she could be

little piece of sand that's blown
Above the ocean's breeze
But all she has is thoughts of all
Those fingers peeling seeds
And leaving them to mold among
The women watching weeds

Semolina
Semolina

Semolina
Loves the seashells
At the shore she
Loves the seashells

Semolina
Semolina
Semolina
Semolina

Semolina
 [bad word] 
 [bad word]