| I gave my lover fruit to eat
|
| But she left it at her feet
|
| She is always doing that, doing that
|
| She is always doing that
|
| «My God,» I said, «I cannot share
|
| And you can’t leave it lying there
|
| You are always doing that, doing that
|
| You are always doing that»
|
| And so I
|
| Wonder will those, scattered pits
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| Take route behind your cracking lips
|
| They are always doing that, doing that
|
| They are always doing that
|
| Will cocky routes cement and dwell
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| To grow within our shackled cells
|
| They are always doing that, doing that
|
| I see flowers doing that
|
| And so I soap our rotting floor
|
| I am sure you craved me once before
|
| When I think of all the fruit I’ve found
|
| And how easily you left it on the ground
|
| The Hunter’s Moon was bleeding red
|
| The night you left our thorny bed
|
| You were always, always
|
| You were always
|
| Last night I dreamt I kissed your feet
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| And held you on our dusty sheets
|
| I am always doing that, doing that
|
| I am always doing that
|
| And so I…
|
| And so I…
|
| And so I…
|
| And so I soap our rotting floor
|
| I am sure you craved me once before
|
| When I think of all the fruit I’ve picked
|
| And fed to you just so you could spit it out
|
| I gave my lover fruit to eat
|
| But she left it at her feet
|
| She is always doing that, doing that
|
| She is always doing that |