It's a cute little cut
at the bottom of your lip
Where the blood flows
Purple and pink

Now take my hand
and let's not plan
Just walk down here
With all your fear

My rings don't mean
Really... anything
Just a shooting sport
of the cutting sort

You try to be suave
All wrapped up in gauze
With your eyes all lit
With that last hit

There's no where to go
Where you won't know
Exactly what I mean
When you try to be keen

The scars of our trust
Don't seem much like lust
But we know just how
We like it to be now.