| My eyes won’t pretend
|
| I didn’t know you were close
|
| I can smell your breath
|
| Through a freshly painted door
|
| Stand here in your coat
|
| While I pour three more glasses of burgundy
|
| And you can lick the dust from the bottle
|
| Wall’s bricked with books
|
| Pages bricked with words
|
| Each mark has been stained in your honor
|
| Ground shadow staggers restless
|
| From the window cross the candle to the corner
|
| My blood and water’s warm as you near me
|
| I’m not begging for mercy
|
| I see no love of mercy in you
|
| I’m not begging for mercy
|
| I’m only waiting for the sound
|
| Of the morning birds
|
| To send you away
|
| Wax is cooled, hard
|
| Sights is going past the yard
|
| In this house I make more shadows than you
|
| Stand there in your hate
|
| While I drink from the second burgundy
|
| And you can rattle the glass cross your belly
|
| I’m not begging for mercy
|
| I see no love of mercy in you
|
| I’m not begging for mercy
|
| I’m only waiting for the sound
|
| Of the morning birds
|
| To send you away
|
| I’m not begging for mercy
|
| I’m not begging for mercy
|
| I’m only waiting for the sound
|
| Of the morning birds to swallow you… |