Paroles: Andrew Bird. The Water Jet Cilice.

I knew this one girl
Drowned in her own curls
Candy colored swirls
That never seemed to end

I could not comprehend
Half what she said to me
So casually
All our tender ears would bend

Tales of ritual self-torture
She's making you abort your carefully laid plans
To make a final stand, rest the world to hand
Scoreless victory for serendipity