What time is it I see clear,
all illusions they will dissapear.
I fixate I feel great I will debate
until daybreak the grace in your gate.
But this world it calls me cruel;
and cruel this world it me has ruled.
You should flutter like the sickle
cut sharp but with smiles tickle.
Set your rapport we are people torn;
like those people we hear in love born.
But we can be what we be to see
that in small spaces comes beauty.
I’ll treat the crevasses of your curves
more than you ever could deserve.
But if not I’ll be the anvil to serve
you and make you feel your worth.