Pictures turn around the dial
There she waits along the side
With her pockets of filth around the room
And she waits for her one to decide
Got her arms around a few
What they would do for a little time
Span the length of the color fields
Hang on for a spell in the wicked mile
Every penalty is crude
The subtleties of drinking wine
In her hands, are they gifts or are they tools
Pressure making pain easy to mind