What desperate depths you've drug me to... still—blood to bruise—I'd run to you. So it's the least that I could do to remember you the way that you would want me to. Those days before these pores improved when, sore to swoon, I swore to you. Then ankles bound with trousers round, I'd lay the way you taught me to. Loose slacks ascend toward half–mast, those photographs outlast what's come to pass.

I have in my mind the face: upright, the skin was taught... but horizontal, an excess came from somewhere to droop down—clouding sockets, flushing hollows—pulling the mouth into a drooping, head-heavy heart. It was in this position of the skin that it looked sadden, yet entirely moved by feeling sad. This is where I knew we met: The Kicking Dead.

Those hips of rose through balls of blue—it's all that I'll recall of you. Those faithful few who never knew? Well, what they don't know won't hurt you. One sinful slip which slew us two—from scorn to screw I mourn for you who'd flatter me your fleur de lis. Who's elegies still seep from me. And pleased to fondly think of thee on berber-burnt and bended knees. So rest—however restlessly—with peace beneath these cherry trees...


Lyrics submitted by Coow

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