Hey, little white girl,
crawl in your canteen.
He shed it all, all for you.
Some boy he turned out to be,
growing dry,
and black as rye.
You save them up
and you pinch them down.
Youâd have them all
for a necklace sewn.
Unstab your hands from your lungs.
What need you fear, his royal tear?
My ebony ring
is changing.
Paravele
Paravele
He brought a gold chain
in a camelâs mouth,
for such a long pane of glass-flesh.
I see your veins underneath,
and should you stir,
a pannish glimmer.
In brushing past
the wake of your fast,
I canât agree with anything.
Show me infinity
to make him a monarchy.
My ebony ring
is changing.
Paravele
Paravele
A minister laughs,
a banner chaffs,
to challenge a loveâs nativity.
Some boy he turned out to be,
his foreign hem
arranging them.