Before you make the call
We should check the pulse,
Just to be sure.
You know I can stomach the smell of rotting,
But I know you’ve got yourself a sensitive nose.
‘Cause all the things you wear are grey
And you wear your hair so nice
That I just have to look away to check the fact
That a circle’s still a circle
Even if it’s wreathed in black?
Color streaming down your white face
The music; you’re as black as I
But you know I can resist the canvas emptiness
And lately I’ve been painting with my right eye closed, because:
All the things you wear are great,
And you wear your hair so nice,
But I just have to look your way and state the facts:
That I’m as white as Sunday,
When your eyes are on my back.
Put us in stitches,
We like to,
And then burn each other black.
But our circle’s still our circle,
And nobody’s is exact.
I hear that heart still beating,
Tendons tight and releasing!