Feral Birth - Turin Under Siege (A Riot In Fake Silk Gloves)

Sex, my hex; the city and three X
Some turmoil news, and a riot to vex
My inner world, for, even without
The vogue did seem to be turning into
A ruse to fuck whomever one wished to
A mist kept stealing in from the East
Along the river to trade in fever
A silent shiver, stalking under cover
A slender girl, blonde but barely legal
Soon to cause my vigils to splinter
Drew the line up from crystal dust
Thus starting a one-way vortex of lusts

One, Two, Threesome
Elevation
One too many
Insinuations

Morning glory, night-time elation
Daylight classes to drug addiction
Pushing backbites throughout the city
Boys, and boys, were giving it up to
Fucking, nightly, in her apartment
Apartheid or sexual confinement
Rate me late, belated, benighted
Searching words for the new Enlightened
Chanced to meet her some five years late
Would Chance, then, have me tempt my own Fate
At home, to atone, engulfed by the tide
Apt to jerk off, cryin' not by her side

One, Two, Threesome
Sexcapism

Fifteen, I mean, eighteen, I pine! A white-lined, gold-haired nymph
Drunk on absinthe, broke, out of date, I would dance to a eight-bit synth
In line to fuck; aligned to get lucky holding ice-berged drinks
Them boys would dredge, but on the edge, it was she who filled 'em up to the brink
And me

Me! O, My!- Me, I 'tween her thighs
Eating glass from behind twin eyes
When, snorting coke along some guy's cock
She'd have me blow those mirrors back into
Jungle sands wherein to be drowning
Was a matter of second-timing
Neither was she really engaged
The times she drove me nuts but, deranged

I'd only change the soft from the hardware
Pressing start so to start again
She O, My!- Suspicion would dog me
Blowing me off 'tween some guy's thighs

One too many
Sexorcism

Fifteen, I mean, eighteen, I pine! A white-lined, gold-haired nymph
Drunk on absinthe, broke, out of date, I would dance to a eight-bit synth
In line to fuck; aligned to get lucky holding ice-berged drinks
Them boys would dredge, but on the edge, it was she who filled 'em up to the brink

Come, come-come
Come, come-come
Hope is gone
Come, come-come
Click, click-click
Sick, sick-sick
She ain't done
Come undone
Come, come-come
Come, come-come
Hope is gone

Fifteen, I mean, eighteen, I pine! A white-lined, gold-haired nymph
Devoid of lymph, blood-less, replete, I would swoon to a eight-bit synth
In line to fuck; maligned to get lucky holding ice-berged drinks
Turin did pledge, that, on the edge, it was she who'd filled 'em up to the brink
Go

It is she who's filled me up to the brink

Written by:
Edoardo Peterlin, Massimilano Morelli

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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