Come away,
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Come away with me.
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You perfect, perfect shell.
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You nautilus, nautilus.
|
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I will treat you so well,
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I'll take you up from this hell.
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My gracious host,
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You're my lover,
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Won't you be my concubine?
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The pleasure's all mine,
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Your pleasures are all mine.
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To twist and turn around,
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In figure eights and out of place.
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Refuse the bounty of his right for the hunger of his left hand.
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A barren spring of fume and fret is coursing it's way,
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(I'm the fervor of the fever you can't sweat.)
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Through everything inside of me.
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(I'm the garments stuck to your skin,)
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And I know what won't ever sink,
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(Drenched and dripping wet.)
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Will slowly swim to the bottom.
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(I'm a spring of flowing fume and fret.)
|
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Just promise not to see me as I am (Or what I'll become),
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A pestilential scab,
|
The scarlet of sunburned skin.
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I will stick to you like a wet cloth (You just can't shed).
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I will cling to you like a child to his mother's breast.
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You fertile crop, I won't be shed.
|
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I saw my shining shield and armor rust,
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I felt my posture bow and fall to dust.
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But all the vigils, and the stakes I claimed,
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Couldn't take the sting from out my shame,
|
Couldn't take the color from the stain that I became.
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The stain that I became.
|
|
I'm the fervor of the fever you can't sweat.
|
I'm the garments stuck to your skin,
|
Drenched and dripping wet.
|
I'm a spring of flowing fume and fret,
|
I'm the melody stuck inside your head.
|
|
What have I become?
|
|
-----------------
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The Crop And The Pest
|
| The Receiving End Of Sirens |
