a poor man is the image of want and we don’t have a bolt to our names but we have music driven by demons danced to by angels the rhythm of saints and sinners in eternal friction as it is in heaven so shall it be in hell we got the tools we can loose the lightning it won’t stop because we don’t stop it was the language of our limbs the lexicon of lust that first betrayed our innocence then exposed our love
we were caught with our pants down and
made ashamed of our bodies but I’ve
seen you with him your faux lover there’s no heat there no magic he
will not feed your passion nor
spare you the force of his affections
so forsake his god of blood come
back to our tangled bed we’ll dance the horizontal tango and forget about tomorrow’s woes at least until the morning when we’ll be judged as monsters by a jury of our peers
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