I’m afraid you’ll find my tarnished parts.
If you keep sneaking around the way you do, I’m afraid you’ll find there is no land left here unchartered or un-charred.
This was an empire before they burned their fires, stuck their flags deep in this soil and claimed it as their territory
And when the ear was barren dry, they gave it back, unholy act.
See, I’m no piece girl, when I love I give the whole of me.
So when they left the lease in pieces, they also left these holes in me.
My monuments have seen some things, Baby,
Civil wars, famine, and crusades, Baby, the conquer and raids of holy places.
So before we go any further, Baby, will you listen to the kind of mess my heart’s been in?
Touch the grit that’s sitting tranquil settled between each whittled rib?
After all the best has been torn away, will you want the rest of me?
The parts that poets find grotesque and plain, The bits that boil and bubble over, crack and callous, break down and dim to rust. To dust…