Post by Pseudomuse on Apr 23, 2005 20:14:27 GMT -8
It’s a Sunday Morning death parade
With its monatomic rumblings echoing of the spare walls
Drumming against my brain like the all the previews we watched
High in the citadel, alone and wild in our intimacy
Taking every chance we had to run rapid through life
And I keep thinking you’ll come back
And sweep me up in your arms
I see London, I see France…
Torn petals crinkle under my feet
There once wine complexion stolen
In the moments between “Hello” and “Goodbye”<br>I shuffle them away as I pass into the eternity that once was
Careful recorded memories, now everything is such a blur
And I keep thinking you’ll come back
And sweep me up in your arms
I see London, I see France…
And I’ve force fed myself so many times
I lost all feeling especially in my thumbs
As I pick up your foreign cigarettes and half empty scotch bottles
That aren’t there, and that smell of sandalwood and fresh dewed grass
Is stinging my lips once again
And I keep thinking you’ll come back
And sweep me up in your arms
I see everything, we left to chance…
It’s a Sunday Morning death parade drumming in my ear
Rumbling with the palpitations of my heart
Deafening and sobering all at the same time
Grabbing my lifeline, the bottle that always freezes my fingers
I seep into the land of drunkenness
Slowing slipping away into amber liquidity
I see London, I see France…
With its monatomic rumblings echoing of the spare walls
Drumming against my brain like the all the previews we watched
High in the citadel, alone and wild in our intimacy
Taking every chance we had to run rapid through life
And I keep thinking you’ll come back
And sweep me up in your arms
I see London, I see France…
Torn petals crinkle under my feet
There once wine complexion stolen
In the moments between “Hello” and “Goodbye”<br>I shuffle them away as I pass into the eternity that once was
Careful recorded memories, now everything is such a blur
And I keep thinking you’ll come back
And sweep me up in your arms
I see London, I see France…
And I’ve force fed myself so many times
I lost all feeling especially in my thumbs
As I pick up your foreign cigarettes and half empty scotch bottles
That aren’t there, and that smell of sandalwood and fresh dewed grass
Is stinging my lips once again
And I keep thinking you’ll come back
And sweep me up in your arms
I see everything, we left to chance…
It’s a Sunday Morning death parade drumming in my ear
Rumbling with the palpitations of my heart
Deafening and sobering all at the same time
Grabbing my lifeline, the bottle that always freezes my fingers
I seep into the land of drunkenness
Slowing slipping away into amber liquidity
I see London, I see France…
