| You have scars on your face from where he left you
|
| Your blue eyes still aren’t dry
|
| Your hands have run through your blonde hair a thousand times
|
| You say you’re going to Samarra
|
| Won’t be back tomorrow
|
| You left a letter on the drawer
|
| Bread winners won’t be baking anymore
|
| I’ve been wondering for awhile
|
| How records in your heart
|
| Pull the Brompton shakes apart
|
| The blood is in your hands
|
| The bodies on the ground around us
|
| Make no future plans
|
| Sever every bound that binds us
|
| That ties us
|
| There is blood on the clothes that you’d once wear for him
|
| Was it worth the lace facade
|
| His hands you still feel round your waist on rainy days
|
| I’ve been wondering for awhile
|
| How records from your past
|
| Make the brief encounters last
|
| The blood is on your hands
|
| The bodies on the ground around us
|
| Make no future plans
|
| Sever every bound that binds us
|
| The blood is on your hands
|
| The bodies on the ground around us
|
| Make no future plans
|
| Sever every bound that binds us
|
| The blood is on your hands
|
| The bodies on the ground
|
| The blood is on your hands
|
| The bodies on the ground
|
| The blood is on your hands
|
| The bodies on the ground around us
|
| Make no future plans
|
| Sever every bound that binds us |