What does he take me for?

Or maybe he knows what I want to be.

That's not what you think.

I just want to be me

And right at this moment that me is a she.

Do you think he wants her

or for her to be me?

Oh, this is the stuff of which heartaches are made.

Of taffeta, rayon, of silk and brocade

When all your illusions grow threadbare and frayed,

Yes, this is the stuff of which heartaches are made.

What does he want from me

Perhaps he's just stupid and just doesn't see

Or drunk and in search

Of a strange fantasy.

That somehow he now has projected on me.

Do you think he's naive

or is that only me?

Oh, this is the stuff of which heartaches are made.

Of taffeta, rayon, of silk and brocade

When all your illusions grow threadbare and frayed,

Yes, this is the stuff of which heartaches are made.

What does he think this is?

A place for those suffering acute ennui ?

Like seventies disco?

Miss Summers and me

We'd make quite a pair, but then ultimately

He'd wake up and see

he danced up the wrong tree.

Oh, this is the stuff of which heartaches are made.

Of taffeta, rayon, of silk and brocade

When all your illusions grow threadbare and frayed,

Yes, this is the stuff of which heartaches are made.

What do YOU think I should do?

Just tell him to please take his hand off my knee?

Politely request that he just leave me be

Or tell him "Excuse me,

but I have to pee."

Then walk to the Men's Room so maybe he'll see

That my filigree is a facsimile.

Do you think that's the stuff

of which heartaches are made?

Or is it just part of a bigger charade

Which like our illusions eventually fade

Or is it the stuff

of which heartaches are made?