| 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, momma, don’t fuss over me
|
| 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 fall on me
|
| All while she stains
|
| The sheets of some other
|
| Thrown at me so powerfully
|
| Just like she throws with the arm of her brother
|
| But I want it, it’s a crime
|
| That she’s not around most of the time
|
| 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
|
| Her fight and fury is fiery
|
| Oh, but she loves
|
| Like sleep the the freezing
|
| Sweet and right and merciful
|
| I’m all but washed
|
| In the tide of her breathing
|
| And it’s worth it, it’s divine
|
| And I can have this some of the time
|
| 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. |