The VINCENT

Once upon a midnight of ill repute, my suit of cards has flap sparred reduced.
Fickle fucker fingernail sail a little fickle stippled barge with snail mail. Fiber optic prophet. Redux.

CHORUS:
Little bitter things sling their armbands.
Little sick brittle things. The farmhands.
You, we don't, I, we bleed.
You, we don't, I, don't need.

We don't stop. We don't breathe. We don't need release.
We don't stop. We don't breathe. We don't need release.
(ah fuck it)

Sultry motherfucker, what's your sign? Yeah? Well mine's dressed to the nines with kestrel whines. Slight.
Fucking fight. You gonna do it or should I? To the skylight. Straighten up and fly right. I pulled the trigger and I'm dead meat. Goodnight.

CHORUS