You're a holiday
A glass of ocean slipping down
My throat and landing on my hopes
I'm dreaming
Off the map no hidden grids, I'm fleeing

I worship you like holy days
Lying on my back seeing clouds and rays, drinking lime and bitter from my lemonade
White horses maritime won't do

I'm thinking it’s the
Know that it’s the
I'm thinking it’s the bad, bad blood, I'm thinking it’s the
Know that it’s the
I'm thinking it’s the bad, bad blood