miss the smell of your hair
Gondola, swings, no final fare.

Well I think it's in-genuine
But genuinely I miss the scent of sin.

Serenity in the the trace of tires
Skidding, softly to the suns fires.

Where parasites would've given up
Divine is dinner is not enough.

Breakfast at four to carry us down
The sound of a left desire begins to compound.