I got ten fingers to the sky,. My back to the wall, my white flag high,. Her lips, just like a gun,. She's got silver bullets on her tongue,. He's deep under her spell,.
We've got the neighbors calling the cops. Because you're screaming out my name. I'm throwing dishes from the rooftops. While you're standing in the rain.
We were never the marrying type, oh no,. We won't buy dishes or stained glass lights, oh no,. For a table we'll never sit at,. In the house that we won't ever get.