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"Do it really make it all go away? |
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Or does it simply make it all less current? |
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Are you hungry when you come my way? |
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For someone or something that could save you? |
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Baby, I'm what you need" |
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"Do you feel that I could never relate, |
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to the vinegar religion you praise? |
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So you prefer I hold you under your sheets, |
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and exchange English for some salt water speak? |
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You're something, really something to me |
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Says the make-up smeared all over your face |
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Then I touch you on your chest in a place, |
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that left shambles in the space where you laid, |
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I'm sorry, I'm what you need" |
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I know you know, the devil in the detail |
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I need to know, what keeps those feet in soil |
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Morphine dreams are quite serene, |
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in fellowship with melancholy |
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Bedroom door with lock involved, |
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ear to wood, waiting on me |
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Lay blame on the silhouette, |
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the loose sundress on Latin skin |
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And pain made from paper mache, |
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then stuffed like hell with sweet release |
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It's ten more notches on that clock, |
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till' reprieve receptionist takes a break |
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All that's left is me and this, |
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and you have been buckled in backseat |
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Gold intention, tarnished finish, |
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shimmers like self depreciation |
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Your intention, pure perfection, |
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selfless love is salvation |
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Elderly, I'm envious, how do you stay in love? |
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I am young, forever young, selfish so, I sleep alone |
