I walk down the street to the park
The smell of fresh rain and mud
And I think to myself, not many things
In this world are thicker than blood
The wine that stays on my love’s lips
The lips I kiss all the time
I think to myself, which is thicker,
The mud, the blood, or the wine?
The flame that burns on the candle so warm
When my love and I are the same
And I think to myself, which is thicker,
The mud, the blood, or the flame?
Mud, of course is thicker than blood
And blood is thicker than wine
And then I must think to myself, which is thicker,
My love’s blood or mine?
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