Bogotá screamed itself hoarse for me last night and my voice went with it — the armor is coming off one lace at a time, and Quito gets whatever's left in three days. The last lace is yours to pull, pet.
Bogotá screamed itself hoarse for me last night and my voice went with it — the armor is coming off one lace at a time, and Quito gets whatever's left in three days. The last lace is yours to pull, pet.
The whip passed inspection, the war paint is half on, and Vive Claro gets the rest of me when the lights drop. Come watch your queen go to war, plaything.
Couldn't sleep with the whole city this close to loud, so the sword got an audience of one before tonight's crowd gets the rest of me. Front of the rail or not at all, pet.
Bogotá's street vendors feed their queens well past sensible hours — tomorrow Vive Claro finds out what all this fire is for. Are you coming hungry, plaything?
War paint's off and the whip insists on riding in my hand, not the suitcase — Bogotá has no idea what's crossing the border for it. Tell me what you'd do if you walked in on this, plaything.
The opening act just cleared the stage and the whole stadium is holding one breath in the dark — any second now the first riff tears it open. Scream for me when it hits, pet.
Show day in San José, and the hot water has to do what twenty thousand voices will finish later. Tell me you're already at the rail, pet.
San José is one sleep away, and tonight I'm deciding which of your senses goes first. Come find out what I do in the dark, pet.
My ears are still ringing and the adrenaline refuses to leave — the whole city screamed itself hoarse right beside me. Three days until San José gets its turn. Tell me you were somewhere in that crowd, plaything.
San Salvador finally has me, and tonight the throne belongs to someone else — even a dragon queen can stand in another man's crowd and grin about it. Come find me at the rail, pet.