Guess: Is It Flash Fiction or Liner Notes from the 60s?

Guess whether the following is a) a bad piece of flash fiction I found on a pseudo-literary erotica site or b) the text on the back of Nancy Sinatra's 1966 album Boots.

"How should I sing this?"
"Like a 16 year old girl who's been dating a 40 year old man, but it's all over now."

She looks good, dresses good, lives good, eats, drinks, loves, breathes, dances, sings, cries good. Five foot three and tiger-eyes. A mouth made for lollipops or kisses. Stingers or melting smiles. Ninety-five pounds of affection.

She's been there already. Barely in her twenties, she looks younger. That look, like Lolita Humbert, like Daisy Clover. The power to exalt, or to destroy, wanting only the former, but unafraid to invoke the latter if the time comes.

The eyes that see through, know more, look longer.

Unafraid to pull on the boots again, toss off a burnt out thing with a casual "So long, babe," and get.

A young fragile living thing, on its own in a wondrous-wicked-woundup-wasted-wild-worried-wisedup-
warmbodied world. On her own. Earning her daily crepes and Cokes by singing the facts of love. Her voice tells as much as her songs. No faked up grandeur, her voice is like it is: a little tired, a little put down, a lot loving.

No one is born sophisticated. It's a place you have to crawl to, crawling out of hayseed country, over miles of unsanded pavement, past Trouble, past corners and forks with no auto club signs to point you, till you get there and you wake up wiser.

She's arrived. She sings you about the long crawl. And makes you have to listen.

She's there.

If you guessed b, you're right. It's the work of Stan Cornyn, who was, apparently, considered the king of liner notes back in the 1960s. You can read other samples of his work here. Scroll down for the most entertaining ones.

We found the record yesterday at Grandpa's house. Luke enjoyed dancing to "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'." David enjoyed reading the liner notes out loud in the voice of a Beat poet. I "enjoyed" taking two Advil and sticking my head under a sofa pillow for the duration. Although I think I might just have to embroider a tea-towel with the words: "No one is born sophisticated. It's a place you have to crawl to."

Comments

[lisapeet]

And they gave poor little Miley Cyrus all that shit for posing tastefully topless-but-covered in Vanity Fair? Oh tempores, young lady.