In streets still soft with sleep

Whisper words that are worth the dirt beneath

Verbal arrows that you brought

Shot down the moon in parking lot

I hit you in the dark

My fist imprinted with your teeth marks

And your skin struck cobblestone

Realigned like a broken bone

If you play it right

Keep me on the line

Hold your knives so tight

Until your knuckles turn white

Any glove that fits

Was stitched by hypocrites

With no one else to blame

There's no reward for a wicked fame

Your eyes still follow me

Like cigarette burns in a sweatshirt sleeve

Like a space you couldn't fill

You can try to drown me but I'm hard to kill

You can struggle for my stride

Cheer me on from the side with your pretender pride

I'll forgive but won't forget

All the pain of your swaying threats

If you play it right

Keep me on the line

Hold your knives so tight

Until your knuckles turn white

Any glove that fits

Was stitched by hypocrites

With no one else to blame

There's no reward for a wicked fame

Just when we hit the dust

Hands smelling like coins and decaying rust

Your heels were hazard high

Just the kind of crazy that would catch my eye

Your instructions still prevail

Just a few can throws round crooked tail

Your sling and slang in speech

Feels just like a lucid dream

If you play it right

Keep me on the line

Hold your knives so tight

Until your knuckles turn white

Any glove that fits

Was stitched by hypocrites

With no one else to blame

There's no reward for a wicked fame