bottle up the brandy crane, i know yr secrets,
long, wind, passive-aggressive
i'm an eye at yr window
taken to the stereo
that's all done and fine now
i can read lips
well, yr lips especially, and the occasion gesture
as you hold her down and spit her out
could it be anymore more like play
i keep a small photo
of yr olive momento
of yr gameface stiletto
Just like yr magazine hairstyle
just like yr cough
and the fashion of ice,
bottle up the rocket road
the lines run thin and crooked
i'm a lens to yr window-still
copy every move i made, follow every shadow
the blackest of the darkest hole
should i read yr thoughts,
on guard
i'm the broken pane right under yr feet
and to split me is to slit you
poppy is still my sunshine
and violet, still, my night
come and crawl inside the tiny little number
the sickly small crater
that could make me cry as you'd leave its sight........
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