Being the Illusionist
Some try to find their god in the depths of discussion, but I've got God,
so now I can take it deep without a sound,
the magic of my mouth like an abracadabra shazam. Trick.
You didn't give me a goodbye kiss, just slipped your hands in my back pockets
and let me do the work. I'll see you around, beautiful, and I know it's just another
lie. But I was silent, lips firm and smooth. Aftershock.
It must have been your fault, really, because my best friend, she only likes you
when you talk pretty to her (she doesn't like you very much anymore).
I turned up the radio like it would drown you out of my head. Mirage.
I must be pretty: you let me tense up your muscles and make you gasp,
with my eyes open I can see your knuckles, ivory white like out of tune
piano keys, I've got control. Illusion.
And, oh, how you must breathe now, 'cause I've found God, so with my
head on your heaving chest I swallow hard. I can take it deep without a sound,
and all you can call me is baby, baby. Smokescreen.
Fix your tricks or that aftershock will slam into you like a desert oasis mirage.
An illusion of my control and I'm just a pretty smokescreen, but, oh,
I take you deep. Lies.
Lying as I get my intake of Vitamin C. You laugh and call me beautiful.
I smirk and abracadabra shazam, I disappear like the dirty little trick I am.