I'm enamoured of your feral side:
your appetites, your bristling hide.
We've wasted enough time; show us your canines!
But you're buckling now like something chased:
a murder on your stricken face.
We've wasted enough time; show us your canines!
Don't pitch up on my doorstep when you're all moss and eyes....
And god knows it's a wretched sight:
your crawl towards the stalled headlights.
We've wasted enough time; show us your canines!
Don't pitch up on my doorstep when you're all moss and eyes....
Look out through those eyelashes like you were looking out through bars,
every graceless thing you've ever said sounded like reading words off cards.
And you can call it dignity, but it's something far less strong:
it's the residue of guilt and snow which shores up the heart before too long.