Every suntan tells stories and the shape of the white snitches, fat men and tropical climes. Now you tell me you've been fucking somebody new, and that I should've known for a while. Watching the starlings as the water draws in, as they make a ghost across London fields. And I wouldn't have moved out there to be with you, I wouldn't have moved out there for real. Saw a choir of golden angels wearing matching rucksacks as they obscured the view to your train. And I'm sorry if it seems like I'm rambling here. I just want to see the way the skin of a snitch wrapped his bones in the golden head of your mouth. And the arms of the proud as they pulled me away, and the mud and the blood and the grass. When we scraped our bones together, we got fire. When we scraped our bones together, we got fire. When we scraped our bones together, we got fire.