Broken Bones, Houses on Fire, and Other Imperfect Metaphors I'd like to think it's a political chemical keeping our broken bonds covalent, Whittling down those in front of her, High intelligencer without a toppled table addict. I'm just a question hating my answer: How can the burning bed grow cold when no one's made it? Honestly she's never seen me alive, Someone should tell her after she steals from me That I've been lying down with the whiskey. And one goes left and one goes right into that fine young night, Starry configurations on a terrestrial tuner. She can cut all the dresses with a mouth too sharp And the page is bleeding after the night is fleeting, But she's got all of the ones and zeroes When you're running around the place gray, As the sun is setting, set me down easy. She's been sitting on her gin longer And she's like sunshine and ice cream, a headache. Her smile, her teeth, are tickling ivory, There is never her and I only us, Sweet sultry Prometheus. She's the speed on your breakfast plate, She burns like a light bulb in a gaslight city, When you have those damned zombie blues. Hands remain like healthy spiders Not wounded or drunk, not seeking solace but solitude, Making your brain do ragtime.