This atmosphere, the air is so thin,
so few layers between our skin.
But what's a few clothes to
a waterfall of sin, that starts with my vice,
and ends with your drink.

Honey, I'm not made of glass,
Push me down, pull me back.
I need to be washed of my sins, place a cross on my head.
I'm an alcoholic and you're a font full of gin.

k.g.