| When you came to me there in that old telephone pole
|
| Out of the night
|
| And I rushed right down to meet you and that silky thing
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| And sat down on a porch swing
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| Oh, and I knew the moon would melt
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| Before I held it to my breast like that again
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| Why couldn’t I die then
|
| So warm
|
| Behind the curtains of your arms
|
| When you stopped the clock on that cold rock
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| And mix the hot young blood with granite dust
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| Then I raise my head just to kiss the sweat
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| They clung like honey from your garnet brow
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| Ooh, and I knew the mountainside would be
|
| A million years of dusted rust before you took me up there again
|
| So tell me why couldn’t I die then
|
| I was warm
|
| Behind the curtains of your arms
|
| Instead I was found dead, but well carrying on my life
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| With my dusk glow and dear friends
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| Buried without a casket
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| And no one who writes my epitaph
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| 'Cos I know that I’m still breathing
|
| And they think that means I’m still alive
|
| I’m still alive
|
| And I knew the mountainside would be
|
| A million years of dusted rust before you took me up there again
|
| Why could I not die then
|
| Warm
|
| Behind the curtains of your arms
|
| Why could I not die then
|
| As seems it doesn’t really matter when
|
| It doesn’t really matter when
|
| It doesn’t really matter when
|
| It doesn’t really matter when
|
| It doesn’t really, no
|
| It doesn’t really matter when
|
| It doesn’t really matter when |