Kw

In streets still soft with sleep
whisper words that are worth the dirt beneath
verbal arrows that you brought
shot down the moon in parking lot

I hit you in the dark
my fist imprinted with your teeth marks
and your skin struck cobblestone
realigned like a broken bone

If you play it right
Keep me on the line
hold your knives so tight
until your knuckles turn white

Any glove that fits
was stitched by hypocrites
with no one else to blame
there's no reward for a wicked fame

Your eyes still follow me
like cigarette burns in a sweatshirt sleeve
like a space you couldn't fill
you can try to drown me but I'm hard to kill

You can struggle for my stride
cheer me on from the side with your pretender pride
I'll forgive but won't forget
all the pain of your swaying threats

If you play it right
Keep me on the line
hold your knives so tight
until your knuckles turn white

Any glove that fits
was stitched by hypocrites
with no one else to blame
there's no reward for a wicked fame

Just when we hit the dust
hands smelling like coins and decaying rust
Your heels were hazard high
Just the kind of crazy that would catch my eye

Your instructions still prevail
"just a few can throws round crooked tail"
Your sling and slang in speech
Feels just like a lucid dream

If you play it right
Keep me on the line
hold your knives so tight
until your knuckles turn white

Any glove that fits
was stitched by hypocrites
with no one else to blame
there's no reward for a wicked fame