30 setembro 2010

ruby throat . barebaiting



I don't care; well intended, it was meant when he sent it,
Long forgot in the blink of an eye,
I got your locks, so I mended, and your burnt lust will defend it,
Silk thread, to climb you up into the sky,
You know that it's true, but of course it's up to you,
Still...he doesn't love you,
Still...he doesn't love you,
And as he held through the night, he took out your second sight,
He left it all for the magpie and the fox,
But bury it safe in your special place,
A crease, a crevass, you forgot,
But he still smells so nice, so against all advice,
I creep into the hole that he sleeps,
But I must have dropped the key so I just sing until I bleed,
Still...he doesn't love me,
Still...he doesn't love me,
I took a turn in his tailspin to churn the urn that he's ailed in,
I break the last thread of the screw,
My compass cracked in his grip, and as he spits out all my pips,
Still...he doesn't love you,
Still...he doesn't love you,
He cut it out; stitch-by-stitch, my felopean grip,
I hang the dead meat on his tree,
And as I screech through the night, he said; 'My wife fell on that knife',
He coughed, and he coughed, until he bleed,
So when you gonna learn? When will you tend to these burns?
When will you wake from this hell?
You can put it in a song, but that won't change what's wrong,
No, it won't give you the key to the cell,
You know that it's true, but of course it's up to you,
Still...he doesn't love you,
Still...he doesn't love you,
Still he doesn't love you...

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