From the recording Seneca Guns

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Gonna scrape you off my slate,
Let you hold me to your bosom.
Gonna lick you off my plate,
Introduce you to my custom.

It’s just like we rehearsed,
And the arrow goes right through.
You can do your worst,
And, so help me, I mean to.

It’s not the fires but the freezes that hold sway,
When we’ve both made up our bed.
You’re no good to me in pieces anyway,
And I’m no use to you dead.

Set my candle in your sill
And fold your arms akimbo.
Leave pretenses where they spill
And lie with me in limbo.

Your foundation starts to splinter
When your kingdom grows too bold.
Don’t cling too close to my center
When you know it cannot hold.