You're not bloody swab paradise
You're golden stars licked to stick
A world with frogs and magic tricks
Floating logs and scissor kicks
And lemonade and sweaty sex
Hug me like I gave you checks
You kiss me like the upper crust
Tell me things to make me blush
Champagne bottle
Bon voyage
A souvenir garage
A melody to make me smile
Not that you've been gone a while
A purple medal eighth place
Backlit in a trophy case
Sign that says "For little Ace"
Supportive like an ankle brace
Not bloody cotton swabs and lies
Stolen checks and empty eyes
You're a county fair in July
Canadian field of wild rye
You kiss me like potted plants
Bite me like fire ants
Touch me like an old stamp
Olive oil and seven lamps
Not stolen cash I'll pay you back
Bloody paradise attack
Your Sunday at the puppy track
Time to take the long way back
Sweet as the apple of Peru
The inklings of the Eastern Sioux
Not bloody cotton swabs and lies
Stolen checks and empty eyes
But rather

You are the blood
Flowing through my fingers
[That's what I meant to say
Blood in my fingertips
I couldn't tell you that it's the other way]
All through the soil and up in those trees
[You are the blood that I may see you
That I see you
You're the blood in me
You're on earth though]

Girl you wake me to the smell of butter
Sunlight shone through wooden shutters
Naked sex and cuffed breast
Early morning back to test
Pouring rain and rubber suit
Cotton socks and rubber boots
I sprint across the parking lot
Cause that day we were unprepared
Dried our socks and on the stairs
Sound of rain is rain in gutters
Lightning seven seconds thunder
A mild snack late evening hunger
Dvds and Vcrs
Fish tanks and jelly jars
The storm passes the room ours
The summer times and you move
Safety belt in summer cars
Lightning bugs to die in jars
The air conditioner saving grace
Grass stains and flushed face
Refreshing like a glass of milk
Your shaven legs were like silk
You kiss me like a bon voyage
A secret souvenir collage
Overalls and water parks
T-tops and baby sharks
Dragon rolls and frozen juice
Making out in photo booths
A lovely Saturday night alone
Full of films and baking pies
Not cotton swabs and bloody lies
I'll pay you back in plastic eyes

You are the blood
Flowing through my fingers
All through the soil
Through those trees