Track six on Here Come The Bags!.
Thin skin gets you nothing but love-sore
You can wipe yourself clean but you’ll mess up like before
Strut in my direction and let me slip into your clothes
And I saw she undressed, the tattoo on her breast of black willow
I took her number from the back of a newspaper
Next to the obituary
I knew I might need it later
The wicked rain poured hard upon the lane
Where no roses, only thorns grow
Said “Won’t you ring the tease out my cold black willow.”
“Taste the poison but don’t finish your drink yet.”
She tied me up, then she went out for a cigarette
Why must we suffer the love?
Why must we love to suffer?
Maybe friction makes the flame?
It’s why we die to tame each other.
Cheap talkers don’t make the phone ring
And heavy sleepers don’t break the bed strings
Interventions of the flesh, where our bodies get pressed
As she crawled into the window
For the curtains they were drawn
In the morning she was gone
And so the story goes
Until the bitter end
Two shots of bourbon and I’m back on the road again
Where does the man begin, where does the animal end?
Will I ever know?
I think about it every day
And I try to get away