A scapegoat in a waistcoat selling mini plagues again.
There's idle speculation that I procrastinate my life away.
A more persistent Monday morning daze.
You can't bend me. Or attempt to mend me.
You can't lend me how you're feeling.
You can't bend me. Or attempt to mend me.
You can't lend me how you're feeling.
How you're feeling.
When I first saw you in that attic you looked anything but ecstatic that day, that day.
Why would someone leave you sitting there, right in the middle of a dead room with paint? With paint.
Is it an illusion you're alluding to?
A belly-dancing stoat is more believable than you.
You can't bend me. Or offend me.
You can't lend me how you're feeling.
You can't bend me. Or offend me.
You can't lend me how you're feeling.
How you're feeling.
When I first saw you in that attic you looked anything but ecstatic that day.
Why would someone leave you sitting there, right in the middle of a dead room stinking of paint.
I remember just thinking "you are coming home with me." And ever since you stayed in one piece.
When I first saw you in that attic you looked anything but ecstatic that day. That day.