You're a holiday A glass of ocean slipping down My throat and landing on my hopes I'm dreaming Off the map no hidden grids, I'm fleeing
I worship you like holy days Lying on my back seeing clouds and rays, drinking lime and bitter from my lemonade White horses maritime won't do
I'm thinking it’s the Know that it’s the I'm thinking it’s the bad, bad blood, I'm thinking it’s the Know that it’s the I'm thinking it’s the bad, bad blood
