In one night love was tender it gripped
Time was suspended
And the love was the love of the contented.
Soon after, the firing squad arrived.
Gunned down innocent soldiers.
My heart stopped, it ached, crying out
For the men and all their mothers.
Sex and death are closest relatives; one lives upstairs,
One lives down. The furniture is the same but different~
Sex prefers overstuffed chairs in shades of red,
Death digs on black, clean lines, a wooden bed.
Sex and death share walls, and floors and
Sometimes when you're held by love
You can hear death taking the stairs, one by one by one.
It's a fragile co-existence, this. Sex. Death.
And all that jazz.
Sex and death, and all that jazz~it's anything but mellow.
It's about the shakeup, the shakedown, the shaky boots
It's about the flip-flop stomach, the flight of bees.
The shock of the right fellow, the weak knees.
Le petit mort. Or something like that. We tell ourselves
It's our friend. We never stop to realize that like a good
The beginning is in the end.