It was ice cream headaches and sweet avalanche,
when the pearls in our shells got up to dance.
You call me a bad tipper of the cradle,
but i'm just tired yawns for fawns on hunters lawns.
We're the hasbeens of the husbands,
sharpening the knives of young wives.
Take two years and call me when you're better,
take tears of mine and find yourself wetter.
