Walk past with your roses painted purple.
Go on down with your drum and a prayer.
Who cares what they'll probably say or do.
One hundred thousand moments of pain,
and this one darling, this one chose you.

Fire and whispers pour down your spine
as you taste the salt upon your fist.
Mops and boiled milk and crows take you back
Oh my lord what are you going to do?
I suppose you'll know, so go, take your cue.