In streets still soft with sleep
whisper words that are worth the dirt beneath
verbal arrows that you brought
shot down the moon in parking lotI hit you in the dark
my fist imprinted with your teeth marks
and your skin struck cobblestone
realigned like a broken boneIf you play it right
Keep me on the line
hold your knives so tight
until your knuckles turn whiteAny glove that fits
was stitched by hypocrites
with no one else to blame
there's no reward for a wicked fame
Your eyes still follow me
like cigarette burns in a sweatshirt sleeve
like a space you couldn't fill
you can try to drown me but I'm hard to killYou can struggle for my stride
cheer me on from the side with your pretender pride
I'll forgive but won't forget
all the pain of your swaying threatsIf you play it right
Keep me on the line
hold your knives so tight
until your knuckles turn whiteAny glove that fits
was stitched by hypocrites
with no one else to blame
there's no reward for a wicked fame
Just when we hit the dust
hands smelling like coins and decaying rust
Your heels were hazard high
Just the kind of crazy that would catch my eyeYour instructions still prevail
"just a few can throws round crooked tail"
Your sling and slang in speech
Feels just like a lucid dreamIf you play it right
Keep me on the line
hold your knives so tight
until your knuckles turn whiteAny glove that fits
was stitched by hypocrites
with no one else to blame
there's no reward for a wicked fame
Song Discussions is protected by U.S. Patent 9401941. Other patents pending.
