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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 |
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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? |
