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NUNO BETTENCOURT
MOURNING WIDOWS |
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The Temp
She's my baby. She is a Raygun
Kissing my spaceship. Kill me for fun fun
She is my sunshine. My only sunshine
Painting my bluesky. Yellow with jaundice.
She's temp, she's temp
She got a special place for you
She's temp, She's temp
Underneath her favorite pair of shoes
Suicides are fed, modern love rises like bread
Playing catch with living skulls
Hurry up, somebody's dead, we're still alive
She my baby, she got the big gulp
Devour my soul food over and over
Trouble breathing, my world is strangling
Lovely gorilla, she strictly hands on
She's temp, She's temp
She's into nucleo and nucliete
She's temp, She's temp
She makes me feel like I'm hovering
580 meters over Hiroshima
Just a piece of sun
On your skin I burn a home
Lying lotion soothes the pain
Peel me off before I fall
She's to blame, she seems a bit insane
She likes it when it rains all day long
Happiness is knockin', but she cries
Then turning out the light she runs at night
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