She's the type of girl who could bury your bleached bones
Barely breaking a sweat
A marionette bronzed by the breaking sun
Whispering secrets in her native tongue to the barrel of a blazing gun that's
Smoking like a silent movie star, cigarette emblazoned in black and white
As shadowed sihlouettes descend on her happy life
And her intentions have to fight with her appetites in the lack of light
Bullets blitzing by in a brutal ballet
And she sashays into the room like a jagged knife through a phantom limb
To ransom him, the Byronic champion
The private eye kind of guy who likes to lie to himself
Thinking he can find someone else
While wearing a weary expression that suggests the opposite
Wincing while her winsome features waft through the air like a fairy queen
Or some other Spenserian simile
Silly me, simply her smile is a symphony
But her holsters smoulder sizzling
While Sisyphus mourns his torment's simplicity
And boulders belittle his misery
His soul captured in a copper cage
The pauper's rage as he stands naked in the modern age
Archetypes congregate in a rusted rain
Gilded by robots in their rusted reign
I recklessly relinquish my rusted reins
That I may run into your arms, but I must refrain
For fire in the night as it smoulders in silence
Is ash in the morning, colder than science
As mania stands on the shoulders of giants
Who bear arms
But the fair charms of your bare arms, I just barely
Escape when I wish that you'd snared me
But bear in mind, albeit broken by bottles
That my bleached bones are yours to bury
