Guilty Hands
Your crop is dry,
And I'm the rainmaker.
Your heart has stopped,
And I'm your designated first aider.
I am the thick oil
That runs through your engine,
Greasing your pistons.
Pleasure ascending.
Your army's tired,
And I'm the God you fight for.
You are the widow,
And I'm your gentleman caller.
I am the hot oil
That runs through his fingers,
Releasing the tension.
Our secret connection.
With these hands,
With this vice,
I'll draw the blood out from the stone.
Your sweet sweet sweet suffering.
I'll squeeze the honey from your bones.
With these hands,
With this vice,
I'll issue my demands.
Your sweet sweet sweet suffering.
You always forgive my guilty hands.
You've got the shakes,
And I'm the hot hot hot liquor.
I am the volt
That makes your circuity flicker.
You are the squeeze box,
My hands the pressure.
Breathe air into body.
Conducting the rapture.
