- cifra   
  
      
   Her eyes and words are so icy 
 Oh, but she burns 
 Like rum on the fire 
    Hot and fast and angry 
 As she can be 
 I walk my days on a wire   
 It looks ugly, but it's clean 
 Oh, momma, don't fuss over me   
 The way she tells me 
 I'm hers and she is mine 
 Open hand or closed fist 
 Would be fine 
 The blood is rare 
 And sweet as cherry wine   
 Calls of guilty thrown at me 
 All while she stains 
 The sheets of some other   
 Thrown at me so powerfully 
 Just like she throws 
 With the arm of her brother   
 But I want it, it's a crime 
 That she's not around most of the time   
 The way she shows me 
 I'm hers and she is mine 
 Open hand or closed fist 
 Would be fine 
 The blood is rare 
 And sweet as cherry wine   
 Her fight and fury is fiery 
 Oh, but she loves 
 Like sleep to the freezing   
 Sweet and right and merciful 
 I'm all but washed 
 In the tide of her breathing   
 And it's worth it, it's divine 
 I have this some of the time   
 The way she shows me 
 I'm hers and she is mine 
 Open hand or closed fist 
 Would be fine 
 The blood is rare 
 And sweet as cherry wine