I swear she's a ghostie.
She knows what she shouldn't.
I think in mostly the
whatnots of wouldn'ts.
Let's roam the woodlands,
get drunk with good friends,
make out on the bench
with the bend at either end.
I swear she's a pixie.
She knows what she's after.
She likes to fix me up
with good junk & laughter.
Raise high the roofbeams!
Look at the moon gleam.
No need to spoonfeed
the meaning of this to me.
I swear she's a martyr.
She knows what she'll die for,
while I'm trying harder
to find what I drive for.
Let's go to graveyards.
The dead don't break hearts.
Let's go & praise stars
that burn far from where we are.
Does your mother know
you choke girls for fun?
Have you stretched out your bones
to make room for the sun?
That summer slasher was
some sorta monsterpiece,
naked with me in a
bed made of mysteries.
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