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Giving The Table A Name
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Festooned With Our Garments
Salesman at the door
He's not coming in
He's not selling me something i've not seen before
I don't owe him an answer
In a small remainder
We'd infect the rest
Punching me in the head
It don't feel anymore
The black and the white of my eyes
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Wind-y and narrow the staircase
And cold in the cellar
And it won't be so pretty to see
When the owners return to find
All of our clothes on the trellis
They'll find all of our clothes on the trellis
In a coffin we'll end up together
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