Ask iAN

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My motorcycle combatant

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She takes what she wants like a cop on the take
she's a demon when she's drunk laying wastrels to waste
alone with her silverware and your heart on a plate
the headaches of her and berlin

The patience of a still born horse in the rain
she's warm all over just not in that place where birds sing
cash in their rubles at the currency exchange
she's gone with the vodka and gin

New York or Texas with her portfolio
clapped up, blood cupped, sweet as polio
steal from your mouth and tell your eyes she don't know
she's the train and you play the car again

Back behind her curtain washing the night off her face
her golden psychosis bottled back in it's place
it's pointless to chase what is born just to race
those were the days i dared to call her my "Friend".

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