Primorski's

Strings and cords and ethanol lips,

Spilt Russian wine and fingers to lick.

Your heart is cold but your flesh is warmer,

I’m the audience to your performer.

 

Take the mic, tell your tale,

Whistle ‘em dead, make the sale.

You’ll pedal the stage, break a leg,

Take my hand and sing me to bed.

 

Hello Heaven, hello Hell,

I’ll eat the foil, I’ll never tell.

Paint me pretty, drive me madly,

Put on a show for me, daddy.