And if you wed another,
I would have to kill you.
Both in bed, my lover, I would
rather see you dead and undercovers than in front of
the world,
exposing for all others skin.
In which I curled, I would be your Indian lover.
I would be your Indian lover.
I would
be your Indian lover, boy.
Feel my joy.
And if you touch a man,
then you can fully expect I will abort my plan to a woo.
A hue,
a soul,
a circumspect,
I'll cross the gates of hell and cell.
What is left then of my soul?
And in exchange, I'll lay away my dying role.
I would be your Indian lover.
I would be your Indian lover.
I would be your Indian lover, boy.
Feel my joy.
Aesthetic discipline and caked in mud,
I would go down in the river,
wading in,
controlling
the flow.
Not even a stitch of meat, no hair,
no leather on my back,
until I knew which one was better,
the love
or the lacking.
If you go at last and leave me here, I will
slowly run the gas in two,
in the invisible and
fingering the match,
I'll strike one mortal final blow for every fool dispatched.
I'll retire in my piring inferno.
I would be your Indian lover.
I would be your Indian lover, boy.
Feel my joy.
I'd be your Indian lover.
I would
be your Indian lover.
I would be your Indian lover, boy.
Indian lover boy
Feel my joy