| Her eyes and words are so icy
|
| Oh, but she burns
|
| Like rum on the fire
|
| Hot and fast and angry as she can be
|
| I walk my days on a wire
|
| It looks ugly, but it's clean
|
| Oh mama, don't fuss over me
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| The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine
|
| Open hand or closed fist would be fine
|
| The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
|
| Calls of guilty thrown at me, all while she stains
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| The sheets of some other
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| Thrown at me so powerfully, just like she throws
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| With the arm of her brother
|
| But I want it, it's a crime
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| That she's not around most of the time
|
| The way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine
|
| Open hand or closed fist would be fine
|
| The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
|
| Her fight and fury is fiery
|
| Oh, but she loves
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| Like sleep to the freezing
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| Sweet and right and merciful, I'm all but washed
|
| In the tide of her breathing
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| And it's worth it, it's divine
|
| I have this some of the time
|
| The way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine
|
| Open hand or closed fist would be fine
|
| The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine |