She sticks like water. She loves like a butterfly.
She slips through my fingers like sand.
She is good for me; just like the cigarettes I'm chain-smoking.
She changes her haircolor like she changes her mind.

I've never loved anyone like I love her.
So why is it so easy for me to let her walk away?
So... so easy... to let my tambourine fall away from my fingers,
After watching her burn my sound-house down?