honey, I gotta admit I'm a sucker for it
when you tune your soul down a half step
and strum your fingers past your memories
as if your nostalgia could play chords
and darlin', the way you play your neck;
those vocal cords could croon out
industrial grade moodiness
reminiscent of Heathcliff
so I'll just gaze into the star-struck skies
while your guitar kisses me goodnight
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