Текст: French Kicks. Other. So Many Cakes.

Real bone porcelain cups and saucers in flight formations. Gold rimmed sugar bowls, deep like swimming pools. Spoons dive in. and you can crash the party when the punch bowls enters, crash your party when the candle fades.Walk that mezanine, you're caught in between. No charades. Now this pan cooks a little slow sometimes and this cake turns a little cold. Worn out way before the cars arrive. Your face sings from--from friend to foe. No charades. No ticker tape. Baked so many cakes your little fingers swell i was waiting by the oven all day. And if the batter drip drops form a layer of film swept every last crumb away and start it over this time. Now this pan cooks a little slow sometimes, and this cake turns a little cold. Worn out way before the cars arrive. Your face sings from--from friend to foe. And everybody's caught up in the grandeur, eveyone is caught up in the gold. Walk that mezanine, you're still in between, deer tracks skin crack your face looks so old. After all the guests have gone, you can pile your records on, we could let em drop to dawn, one by one. Then lick all the icing from your fingertips and shining arms. We could let the party run till the music's done. And the music's done (watch this one his blood runs hot. His blood is boiling now...underneath, etc.) After all the guests are gone, you can pile your records on, we could let em drop till dawn, one by one. (hero, hero..etc) Then lick all the icing from, your fingertips and shining arms, we could let the party run till the music's done. And the music's done. Hero, hero...etc.