Algebra Suicide - A Slap in the Face | Текст песни

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• Algebra Suicide
• A Slap in the Face

Night descends upon the city like some
Rusty red woman and rubs its breasts in your face,
Reminding you that you're not gorgeous or immortal or swell.
Reminding you that it's September,
and you haven't been bad enough to go to hell like you planned
When spring erupted and bit your cheek like some rabid diva.
This evening sky was made for you,
wraps itself around you like a luxury stole
And yanks you through the streets
as if you were a stilettoed girl late for church.
Fear that you can set things on fire [unclear]
inside you as if it wants to dance,
And the smell of roses is so far away,
and windows are shut so we can't hear your yelling,
And those things called trees are turning colors,
dying a pretty, pretty death.
That sweat we're making is not of hard work, or heat,
or sex, or the desire for much,
But of nerves that buzz beneath your skin.

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