In underwater tones
In early morning
In traveler's cloth
And sleepy skin
Incapable of words
In gentle arms
In eyes that plead

Down the telephone
His voice is smoke
Pour honey on my wounds
And let it soak
Melting into ore
Make fiction real
London has a cure

Skin it burns in delight
Skin it burns in delight

Down the telephone
His voice is smoke
Pour honey on my wounds
And let it soak
Melting into ore
Make fiction real
London has a cure

Skin it burns in delight
Skin it burns in delight