|
My eyes won't pretend |
|
I didn't know you were close |
|
I can smell your breath |
|
Through a freshly painted door |
|
Stand here in your coat |
|
While I pour three more glasses of burgundy |
|
And you can lick the dust from the bottle |
|
Wall's bricked with books |
|
Pages bricked with words |
|
Each mark has been stained in your honor |
|
Ground shadow staggers restless |
|
From the window cross the candle to the corner |
|
My blood and water's warm as you near me |
|
I'm not begging for mercy |
|
I see no love of mercy in you |
|
I'm not begging for mercy |
|
I'm only waiting for the sound |
|
Of the morning birds |
|
To send you away |
|
Wax is cooled, hard |
|
Sights is going past the yard |
|
In this house I make more shadows than you |
|
Stand there in your hate |
|
While I drink from the second burgundy |
|
And you can rattle the glass cross your belly |
|
I'm not begging for mercy |
|
I see no love of mercy in you |
|
I'm not begging for mercy |
|
I'm only waiting for the sound |
|
Of the morning birds |
|
To send you away |
|
I'm not begging for mercy |
|
I'm not begging for mercy |
|
I'm only waiting for the sound |
|
Of the morning birds to swallow you... |
