My hands are cold, they have no blood to hold
The room is dark, but I can hear her laugh
My eyes, they fear what my ears think they hear
My head, it spins and then my love begins
No fun, no games, just this old ball and chain
She thinks I lack the will to cut some slack

Too young, too old to tell what I've been told
My hands, they're cold, they'll need some blood to hold

My love is back, in the ground, in black
I stoop, she knows just not how deep it goes
White guilt inspects a lack in intellect
I talk regrets with the dying architect
Old man once said, dying alone in bed
"The steeps of life are climbed best with a knife"

Still young, still old, can't tell what I've been told
Look, my hands, they're still cold
Soon they'll need some blood to hold