|
Sour milk, motheaten silk |
|
And broken bread and bitter wine |
|
Trim my tears with garden shears |
|
Breed your thoughts in the diamond mind |
|
I'm a song that can't be sung |
|
A method the cannot be taught |
|
I'm a ladder without a rung |
|
An auctioneer that can't be bought |
|
Like a politician's smile |
|
It's your heart, I will pick up |
|
And the halo slipping slowly from my head |
|
Sour milk, motheaten silk |
|
Dandelions and murderous heat |
|
There's a god in every demon |
|
Sugarcane and rotten teeth |
|
I'm the writer's faithful block |
|
The air that makes your chest feel tight |
|
I'm the hand that fits the saga |
|
Pump it full of dynamite |
|
Like a politician's smile |
|
It's your heart I will pick up |
|
And the halo slipping slowly from my head |
|
Lost in the ether lost at sea |
|
Believe in me we're still descending |
|
No where to go, nowhere to breathe |
|
Oh, won't your dreams stop pretending now |
|
Sour milk, motheaten silk |
|
And broken bread and bitter wine |
|
Trim my tears with garden shears |
|
Breed your thoughts in the diamond mind |
|
I'm a song that can't be sung |
|
A method the cannot be taught |
|
I'm a ladder without a rung |
|
An auctioneer that can't be bought |
|
Like a politician's smile |
|
It's your heart I will pick up |
|
And the halo slipping slowly from my head |
