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You've Got Style, Kid. You've Got Style.

de The Weakend

Kiss me mid-sentence and cut me off before I say too much.
You and I both know we can't screw this one up.
So close your eyelids and slit my throat.
I would rather choke red ribbons before than let this trigger go
before I get the chance to pull.

Now that it's August, the nights are getting longer
which gives us more time to cover up the evidence.
I never said it would be easy to pick up pieces from your past
but tonight, let's dine and dance and leave their bodies in the grass.

Thank you disaster, for bringing me this accident.
Thank you misfortune, for now I think I'm fortunate.
Thank you coincidence, for I'm finally coining sense.
In a way, away, a way you're just enough to raise the body count.
Enough to raise our guns.
Point at the targets with our fingers and drop them to the ground.
A monotonous routine to retrieve your life from the loss of theirs.
Take everything back to mend the pieces from addictions in the past.
We'll bring their dental records with us as a reminder.
We'll pave the way for aspiring assassins and lovers towards their fate.
So I kicked right through the front door,
and decided exactly what our two lives were for.
The switchblade switched place as I wrapped an arm around her neck.
"How does it feel to know you can't look back?"
As the blade scores collars and the blood stains hardwood floors.
I'll keep my shoulders close to home so when black angels hear forced requiems
and chase forced victims through the empty streets,
you'll have somewhere to open your eyes as I black out the colored sky.
This is where I scream at the top of my lungs.
This is where the road ends at the barrel of a gun.
This is where it's safe to open your eyes as I black out the colored sky.

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