| What if I said that this ain’t the one,
|
| The slicked back curd of the yellow sun,
|
| What if I said the riders had come,
|
| We’re stood downstream and we ain’t got nowhere to run,
|
| Hangnote…
|
| We got the bad blood coursing in,
|
| Over the rim we go hands to the ceiling,
|
| We got the room come falling in,
|
| Into the swim we go hands to the ceiling,
|
| Black hearts, fuck em
|
| What if I said that this ain’t the one,
|
| Thick black words of a bellowed tongue,
|
| What if I said the climb of the drum,
|
| Will tear down scenes when you ain’t got nowhere to run,
|
| Hangnote…
|
| We got the eyes up to the brim,
|
| Out of the ring we go hands to the ceiling,
|
| We got the first light clawing limb,
|
| Under the skin we go hands to the ceiling,
|
| Black hearts, fuck em
|
| What if I said that this ain’t the one,
|
| The slicked back curd of the yellow sun,
|
| What if I said the riders had come,
|
| We’re stood downstream and we ain’t got nowhere to run,
|
| Hangnote…
|
| You’re leaning towers,
|
| You change shape |