from a public loo in a borough of london that i won't mention, you phoned me in minnesota, said you had a vital question
and as we smoked you feared your neighbours might see we watched a fox rip out the contents of each bin-bag that we lined the road and then you turned to see me mouth, "those entrails are how I'll feel when you decide to leave me"
(fixed that typo for you bby) now i've a whole lot of hate for the island, since your friends buried you down there six feet deep beneath the sand
but at least i'll know we'll never be that far now from each other just a couple hundred feet either side of sea level (fixed yours too qurl)
it's no lie that if the waters rose, and drowned that place from coast to coast, you wouldn't see this smile leave my face for all eternity.