"Find meat on bones that soon have none,
the merriest marrow and the dregs!"
So the poet, the only one who wrote
about the flesh.
Entrail are hags and limbs are torn,
my face is haggard in the glass
and my heart is cracked across,
flesh you break,
this blood you let.

The points to prove, cold lies so far
make us the fools we are.
A certain way to talk so crude
she thinks that extremely rude.
From the Hallway I hear them speak
And I'm trying hard not to shriek!

I'm ashamed of my voice too loud,
I can't wash my dullard look
like blood that remains on me,
I tried to humble myself in deep.
I feel like when I was a child
forced to show a cropped hair.

Oh! That so dammit people,
they spin around me now!
showing these false smiles
they ask me: "where's your wife?"
Like a Mantra I repeat:
"my wife is out on business..."

Them full of modesty never seen
they shall not laugh at anyone
when their bones are picked clean
and the clean bones shall be gone.
I found meat on bones that soon have none
when the lovers laid in need,
in my sullen craft under a gaging moon
I think poet will write about me.

About butcher's love pains
About butcher's love pains
About butcher's love pains.

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.