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In streets still soft with sleep, whisper words that are worth the dirt beneath

Verbal arrows that you brought shot down the moon in a 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, til your knuckles turn white

Every glove that fits was stitched by hypocrites

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, til your knuckles turn white

Every glove that fits was stitched by hypocrites

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 canthrows 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, til your knuckles turn white

Every glove that fits was stitched by hypocrites

No one else to blame, there’s no reward for a wicked fame