The Mars Volta

My love becomes a mange
Dyeing autumn in its leaves
When it broke me in the branch
Where my antlers come to feed
And I swam a hundred days
In the bosom of this filth
Carry on this drought
As I tighten my belt
This deceit has no arms
Bended will, take what's yours
Calling me she's calling me
This it may have come to falter
We have become these pleads