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(McKinley & Brian Cutler) |
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There is no surgery for this. |
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You won't wake up neatly stitched. |
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You have to break it off and burn it shut, |
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half the arrow still in your chest. |
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When you put your arms around someone else, |
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it will not curve |
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but tap at your bone and flirt with your softer parts. |
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Cupid's shooting with evil, rusty darts. |
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He doesn't know he's being cruel, |
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just hunting for sport |
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leaving us littered like buffalo. |
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On the prairie I'm down there dying watching clouds. |
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They look like my dog, my pillow, my teapot, my frown. |
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Until I'm ready to spin up in a wisp, because I can't |
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get up and walk away like this. |
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But if I lay here and collect the clouds back I can make a |
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heart out of nothing. |
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A clean steam pump steeping details |
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having dumped the valves of stone in Cupid's |
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bloody, pudgy hands I can travel light, travel light. |
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Cupid's shooting with evil, rusty darts. |
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He doesn't know he's being cruel, |
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just hunting for sport |
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leaving us littered like buffalo |
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leaving us littered like buffalo, |
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my teapot my pillow |
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My God. My God. My God. |
