A blind man looks out through your eye
He hears the color of your sigh;
Tastes a laugh upon your thigh, then roars—
Oh, let's be clear, my sighing balladeer:
I want nothing more than
You to hear me now
There's red iron in the sliding clay
It stains our knees and turns away
The blood-lusty angels looking to rumble in town—
Oh, let me be clear, my sliding bombardier:
I want nothing more than
You to find me now
Here's how I'm leaning, word for word
No matter what you think you've heard:
When I say, “bird,” I mean a bird, no less and not more—
Oh, let it be clear, my leaning auctioneer:
I want nothing more than
You to raise me now
I'm thirsting after righteous gloom
With daylight streaming in this room;
And the loss of love one day soon may bear me out and away—
But let's be clear, my streaming volunteer:
I want nothing more than
You to see me now
But let's be clear, my streaming volunteer:
I want nothing more than
You to hear me now
