It's the ice, isn't it You packed your mouth full of snow you Shine like white gold Breaking sunlight like a crystal would This is all metal angles Grinding black against bone
Stone on flesh Steel on teeth A french kiss Lost in substance I've got knives for feathers
You pet me the wrong way I'll cut your fingers The death of art I'm at the helm A crystal tick or a shining wreathe of wheat
Oh, saint on me But when you smile it's a technicolour empire Dripping in limestone And bleeding with Persian silk
I've traded my first born son For just one amber sheaf of wheat I met a costume in July
Speaking through emerald cut facets Dear child, I met you too Full of tobacco and honey