Fugitives
We can always escape
with your hand in mine,
it's in the pills that you offer me
but I shy away.
It's in the drink that you poor in me
and I cannot refuse.
Saturday night, we're running away,
through the turnstiles relentlessly,
flowing downstream,
it's the only way.
With your hand in mine
I feel your pulsation echoing through me
again and again,
again and again.
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