Morals, etc. کے بول

Tied tight in a clove-hitch I was waiting for home You got your hands on my thigh Your bloodshot eyes They were wrestling with my collarbone A blanket of bruises on a bed of clavicle I’m scrounging for the words They usually go unheard And I can’t even feel you at all And you hit & you miss; you hit & you miss me ‘til I go. And you push & you pull; you push & you pull me to and fro. I’m no good with road maps I keep getting lost; I keep getting lost inside of you And I’m no good with morals Cause I keep coming back, I keep coming back, come back to you.