She doesn’t like boys who play in the desert, with drilling machines and thirty ton tanks. She doesn’t like those who talk circles around her, but she likes to be held slow for the dance.
She knows that her oil slips through their fingers, she sits on the beach just under their shoes, They left her for something they thought they could ponder, left her for something they thought they could use.
We look to the seas and there is her envy, queen of the Nile, whore of the sea. She cannot compete with the price of her cargo, we cannot complete with inhumanity.
She quietly turns all the tides in the ocean, drifts through the flower where the big rock meets the sea. Shrouded in mist she’s the cactus devotion, lay down your spikes and feel the girls misery.
The cactus for hours stand in formation, like men in armor all over this world. Indian paintbrush offer salvation and the men with spikes reach out for this girl.
And those in full color demand exaltation, thinking the rain has washed them all clean, but a storm front is coming with no hesitation, left me talking of spikes, instead of walking my dream.
The cactus for hours stand in formation, like men in armor all over this land. Indian paintbrush offer salvation, and the men with spikes reach out for her hand.