| December’s traditions suck the last of summer from our cheeks
|
| Draws the curtains, strips the trees
|
| In so-called living rooms, Scottish pastimes come to roost
|
| Love’s labor’s stain a linen sheet
|
| The ghostly body who makes his bed beside you
|
| Is slowly losing teeth
|
| The boy needs sunlight and the shock of modesty
|
| He needs to get some sleep
|
| It’s not the answer; |
| sticking plaster on a shattered bone
|
| What do you need, what do you need from me
|
| It’s not the answer; |
| treatin' cancer like a cold
|
| What do you need, what do you need from me?
|
| After months of grieving, fuck the grief I’m leaving
|
| Will you leave with me?
|
| The blood loss, the towering cost
|
| Mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue
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| The lick brings warm metallic taste
|
| I can’t correct myself, convince you
|
| That there’s no one else in volumes of new muse
|
| If you want a safe, you don’t want me
|
| It’s not the answer; |
| sticking plaster on a shattered bone
|
| What do you need, what do you need from me?
|
| It’s not the answer; |
| treatin' cancer like a cold
|
| What do you need, what do you need from me?
|
| It’s not the answer, I’m just begging to be told
|
| What do you need, what do you need from me
|
| If I had the answer, write a book of what I know
|
| What do you need, what do you need from me? |