Every suntan tells stories and the shape of the white snitches fat men on tropical climbs. Now you tell me you've been fucking somebody new and that I should've known for a while. Watching the starlings as autumn draws in as they make ghosts 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 skinned snitch dropped his bones in the gut and the head in your lap. 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. When we scraped our bones together we got fire. When we scraped our bones together we got fire.