Ita

Why hurt me with your truth, don't leave me with your schemes, or melt me lemon crude, with your bows and parlay, and easy ballet scenes, would you run a silver train, across my lips of wasted tunes, dance feather like as a bee, quarry me pink cheap perfume, bring me home again, and tastefully ease, my hands towards the flame, with your shiny satin shoes, splayed like tambourines, make me sing the blues, once more won't kill you, if taken to my knees, listen to my hips of glue, fire my extremes.