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Honest is killing me |
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I feel you burning holes in me |
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And ripping open threads |
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Like I'm some big enchanting crossword |
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And I know I have to get back up |
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But when I cry, I cry a lot |
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And nothing much is going on |
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The poet and the Vicar's son |
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And so maybe next time, |
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Likely never, |
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So strip the whips |
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And you can burn that leather |
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You can paint the keys, sir, |
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Hide the door |
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Because it's pretty damn quiet, |
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Number 24 |
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And I live in bedsit in the south |
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So bite my nails and tape my mouth |
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And pretend life, life's so fucking sickly sweet |
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You've got the bitter eyes, you've got these rotting teeth |
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Fuck me up, sir, you fade away |
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Give me my own "Polly Day" |
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And clean my boots of suck my toes |
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In pretend life nobody knows |
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I'm okay, I'm okay |
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You're just fine |
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And one day we might |
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Have a good day |
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But maybe next time, |
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Likely never, |
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So strip the whips |
|
And you can burn that leather |
|
You can paint the keys, sir, |
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Hide the door |
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Because it's pretty damn quiet, |
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Number 24 |
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And I live in bedsit in the south |
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So bite my nails and tape my mouth |
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In a pretend life, life's so fucking sickly sweet |
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You've got the bitter eyes, you've got these rotting teeth |
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If I was still seventeen |
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If I was twice as nice, if you were half as mean |
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Then I might give you a second chance |
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To feel the way it maybe should've been |
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Throw me a line, suck my cherry |
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Say you love is dead and buried |
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And find a blonde girl that looks a bit like me |
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Maybe this time you might get it |
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But maybe next time, |
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Likely never, |
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So you can strip my whips |
|
And you can burn that leather |
|
You can paint the keys, sir, |
|
Hide the door |
|
Because it's pretty damn quiet, |
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At number 24 |
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And I live in bedsit in the south |
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So bite my nails and tape my mouth |
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In a pretend life, life's so fucking sickly sweet |
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You've got the bitter eyes, you've got these rotting teeth... |
