Turn your head away as I enter the room.
Hot senses are all we are.
I feel like your searching out my desperation.
It´s here deep inside but you haven´t
quite brought it to fruition.
To the surface.
As you try to make me feel lonely,
maybe it´s good you know blacksheep like me
are so accustomed.
maybe it´s good you know I´ve a hundred ghosts.
So toss your hair and your tone of voice praying
I´ll look your way.
Try to make me feel lonely.
Hot senses are all we are.
What are you depriving me of?
What are you driving at?
Excluded, my heart smiles.
For to live a life of indulging you
p*ss quite a state of denial.
So just try to get me to feel hard done by.
Search for a frown on my face my sweet,
I´m here in the open.
All we are, are hot senses,
genetic pretences.
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