He crys out her eyes, a fire unfurnaced. The curve of her spine is heaven unbound, but heaven is harsh, a fire unfaithful like a bird that you hold in your palm. I know where you hang. I drive by there often. I spy on the circus you make of your friends. Heaven is harsh, a fire unfaithful like a bird that you hold in your palm. Broken eyes in your head. Broken arms at your side. Broken bird on a string. Shake it till she sings, and you realize the suffering by that broken baby wing, and you shake her till she sings, and you shake her till she sings. He cries out her eyes, as blue as her fingers. The curve of her ass is unparalleled. Heaven is harsh, a fire ungrateful like the bird you hold in your palm. Broken eyes in your head. Broken arms at your side. Broken bird on a string. Shake it till she sings, and you realize the suffering by the broken baby wing, and you shake her till she sings, and you shake her till she sings.
