| She brings me colours, white wine and roses
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| And then we paint our faces and pwder our noses
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| She gives me her halo and I hang it next to mine
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| Reads to me Mishima like a honeymoon valentine
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| She’s an architect of pleasure and she fashions me a fountain
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| She leads me through the clouds to the peak of the highest mountain
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| We dare the heavens on a chariot that we borrow
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| Tonight she is my cradle, but
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| Who will love me tomorrow?
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| Cold turkey Cindy pulls the mirrors from the wall
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| Walks barefoot on the broken glass and stumbles in from the hall
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| She’s shooting paper tigers with the needle that she’s borrowed
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| Tonight she is my pillow, so Who will love me tomorrow?
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| Must I sing so low to get so high?
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| I can’t purge myself of demons and I don’t know the reason why
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| My heart feels like a battlefield and all my soldiers lie slain
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| I’ll never be clean, I’ll never be pure again
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| She greets me like a siren and all her lights are flashing
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| She invites me to her dungeon with the promise of a lashing
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| And with a smile like a sunrise playing on her lips
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| She shows me her collections of butterflies, scars, and whips
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| With fingernails like claws she leaves keepsake souvenirs
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| Like trenches on my back she bathes in saccharine scented tears
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| I feel just like an actor in a play called «Dear Friend Sorrow»
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| Tonight she is my refuge, but
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| Who will love me tomorrow? |