| My hands are cold, they have no blood to hold
|
| The room is dark, but I can hear her laugh
|
| My eyes, they fear what my ears think they hear
|
| My head, it spins and then my love begins
|
| No fun, no games, just this old ball and chain
|
| She thinks I lack the will to cut some slack
|
| Too young, too old to tell what I’ve been told
|
| My hands, they’re cold, they’ll need some blood to hold
|
| My love is back, in the ground, in black
|
| I stoop, she knows just not how deep it goes
|
| White guilt inspects a lack in intellect
|
| I talk regrets with the dying architect
|
| Old man once said, dying alone in bed
|
| «The steeps of life are climbed best with a knife»
|
| Still young, still old, can’t tell what I’ve been told
|
| Look, my hands, they’re still cold
|
| Soon they’ll need some blood to hold |