There is a fire in this bed and the sheets are starting to smoke,
The friction of your legs on mine are the culprit.
There's a fire that burns only for you,
It's burning the chaff away and I am made anew.
The old me will die in a blaze of passion,
This bed will be his casket and this house will be his cemetery.
Whenever I'm with you I can rest in peace.
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