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I love to ruin my tent, I love the romances |
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From the bag of angels a sawn-off broken wing |
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They're drinking whiskey, they're getting high |
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They cast the shadows and the passing of the summer sky |
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The King is dead, the well is dry. Ow! |
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She's shooting broken arrows, she's shooting crooked smiles |
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All along that wicked bench from the belly of a swine |
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She's pouring whiskey, she's getting high |
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Too scared to see herself, reflections of the devil's eyes |
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The King is dead, the well is dry. Ow! |
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The need may be your twisted needs |
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It may be you're craving |
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To rest my head on souls of fire |
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A sight for sworn eyes |
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Kiss my eyes ... |
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Dum, dum, dum, dum ... |
