Tekst:
Clare Bowditch And The Feeding Set

fragile like a bee, and skinny as a steeple, and all these memories - are they mine or other peoples? When you died Like we're all gonna go someday, I was five and

that rubs it's back against the window'. You're sure there must be more. You're sure, but you're drinking anyway. Sweet pain, back again, back again and

I neatly fold our love in four, I hug my mother, I bolt my door. I go to find our love a little black cave and dig it down deep and hope it will behave

quiet days that leave me satisfied the most, when our holy ghosts have room to dance between the tea and the toast. Oh gentle man, you say love's a simple land and

drive? And I would but I'm scared of what might happen if you and I are alone again and your fat fingers call out from the steering wheel singing "How about it?" and

because I am the cause, I'm not the comfort. We are winding up Both our bodies say it's true but While we're still winding up I'm still me and you're

, like an autumn bone. Oh you know my love it grows, like an autumn bone, And you're all alone. Oh you know my love it grows, like an autumn bone, And

comfortably. So all those whispers known only to the trees And all those unknown feelings yet to be, They'll come from angels and omens and food, for

freight-train, like a board-game, My Dad he takes his time, says "All will be fine." He cooks meatloaf. My Dad cooks meatloaf, A mean chop-suey and scones. And