Before the Atlantic, Pacific desert
I used to travel to England for the holidays
Oh, on yesterday a taxi cab stalled in the driveway
I was perched on the windowsill
Grabbing snow in my hand to watch it melt
My eyes are green to warmth
A wine bottle snoozing with the snow
So pale the face became
Gazing stoic from her backseat
Wine, all heat within my cold
Wine, lug me throughout my hell
What's your name?
I trip around and drown in crowds
And the air was crisp while I pa**ed
Through the trash of Camden
I pulled my coat airtight
And walked towards the last garbage fire
It seems an hour ago
I missed the last train for hollyhead
Across the can of fire
Her face appeared barely alive