To Tempt the Ire
My heart's set to painted walls,
and my own breath knows who you are.
Can't you sign your name
without the A?
I know a woman who bathes in my defensive air.
Cold and fire to tempt the ire.
Every saddlehorse a lamb,
do you like me better when I'm damned?
Is it hard to play austere?
To cough up the keys or to wrecklessly steer?
(My baby, oh, oh please, please don't.)
Below, my silence; overcome
with the radio chatter of wars not won.
Thankless and thorough,
please wipe your feet inside the door.
Cold and fire to tempt the ire.
Every saddlehorse a lamb,
you like my better when I'm damned.
(Please calm down.
Please calm down.
Please calm down.
Please calm down.)