[details=Lyrics]Shotgun poetry
Crack the whip again, make me see
Sharpen your knives for me
Infiltrate the mind, the body
Body
Contract killer pros
Calmly walks away as blood flows
Open, the wound grows
Melts away the water froze
My love, my love, my love don’t love me.
My love, my love, my love don’t love me.
My love, my love, my love don’t love me.
'Cause my love, my love, my love don’t love me.
Contract killer pros
Calmly walks away as blood flows
Open, the wound grows
Melts away the water froze
My love, my love, my love don’t love me.
My love, my love, my love don’t love me.
My love, my love, my love don’t love me.
'Cause my love, my love, my love don’t love me.
My love, my love, my love don’t love me.
My love, my love, my love don’t love me.[/details]
Thanks. I’ve also been listening to Tcherepnin this morning, which is lighter fare:
I’m in a complex sort of mood: it’s rainy and cold here, and I just finished a piece (of which 4 bars were giving me particular grief, which figures, because the rest of the piece pretty much wrote itself) in the last couple of days, which normally leaves me in a strange space.