Milk and Apples Jets To Brazil

Now she’s milk and she’s apples
You’re scotch and segregation
Lips like molasses
You’re smiling saccharine sidewalks

Crashing the car just to make a connection each week
Greasing the palm of the grease monkey, keep it discreet

While she types and she answers, you pay for information
Wonder, 'What are the chances?'
Just pray there’s conversation

Taking your faith past her desk on a midday drive
Radio filling, aborting the mission, drive by

You’re in the bathroom playing dead
I just know numbers now, I’m feeling
What am I feeling?
What am I feeling?
I can’t cut though to you

Caught yourself while undressing
Nude in a cold reflection
Hands probe, assessing
Slow pills to change the painting