That dim light of those days
Of watercolour memory hour
Will inspire no anthems of grace
And there shan't be prayer for his spirit to soar
When darkness takes its final toll
No mercy is granted to the defeated man
Though in platinum locks and sparkling heels
Blinding my sight you stand
On the unforgiving nothingness I've grown to be
Those buttered scarlet lips - they draw me a smile
On the top of that tiny magical tin box
There's a sensual champagne-like giggle in the air
For in whispers you plead me to unlock
The round shaped Purple and Red
I wash them down to your cotton candy laughter
And in that breathy tone you say: "Weep no more, dear
For we've got a hold of its course now
No sidetracking mind twist will drive us to fear
On their faces, top hat and cane at hand, we'll parade the town"
Indeed, I come to understand it all so sharply
Deep staring into your bubbling glass of brandy
You'll make another Method flick in York
And there'll never be that ladies' 3 a.m. ambulance call
"The heels are gone", as you playingly throw them into the air
You diss Mr. Miller and, by this time, the blues has wiped its own traces
Arm around my neck, we walk down the road
I feel it's leading somewhere
Miss Jean places her wet lips on my left cheek and says:
"Honey, we are goin' places".
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