her eyes and words are so icy
oh, but she burns
like rum on the fire.

hot and fast and angry as she can be
i walk my days on a wire.

it looks ugly, but it's clean,
oh momma, don't fuss over me.

the way she tells me i'm hers and she is mine
open hand or closed fist would be fine
the blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.

-hozier