London

In underwater tones In early morning In traveler's cloth And sleepy skin Incapable of words In gentle arms In eyes that plead Down the telephone His voice is smoke Pour honey on my wounds And let it soak Melting into ore Make fiction real London has a cure Skin it burns in delight Skin it burns in delight Down the telephone His voice is smoke Pour honey on my wounds And let it soak Melting into ore Make fiction real London has a cure Skin it burns in delight Skin it burns in delight