And those long skinny fingers, dear, how they moves you undress.
Each knife in my blood, it's better to forget.
I fill my days up with nights, my dear, my eyes wince inside the light.
'Cause the sun dries up my guts, my dear, so I drink 'em back to life.
Like limbs of a tree, my dear, old and rigid we grow.
And describe our moss, my dear, live my life like a joke.
And if that's the case, my dear, can I laugh at myself?
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