#17
(Dave Faulkner)
May I remind you.
May I remind you that you are through
being the fresh blood.
Everyone's seen the tricks you get up to.
It's so nice, it's so cold. Your #17
You have a taste for something
you liked to very long ago.
Nothing can equal blazing a trail
through fields of virgin snow.
It's so warm, it's so sweet. Your #17.
It's so firm, it's so neat. Your #17
You feel cold, you're a whiter shade of pale.
Truth be told. Hellhounds on your trail.
There goes your final nail.
Love is a strange bird,
taking us places we can never dream.
Hard to imagine,
how does it feel in someone else's skin?
It's so cruel, it's so new. Your #17.
It's so fresh, it's all through. Your #17.
You've been told,
it was in a silent way,
you're too old to go on this way.
You really should behave
or face an early grave.
There ain't a damn thing
I'll ever say to make you change your mind,
so take your fancy,
knowing tomorrow is another time.
It' so nice, it's so cold. Your #17.
It's so soft, it's so bold. Your #17.
It's so warm, it's so sweet. Your #17.
It's so firm, it's so neat. Your #17.
Your #17.
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