The National - Wasp Nest

You’re cussing a stone in a cocktail dress your mother wore when she was young;
red sun saint around your neck; a wet martini in a paper cup;
you’re a wasp nest, you’re a wasp nest.

Your eyes are broken bottles
and I’m afraid to ask
and all your wrath and cutting beauty
you’re posion in the pretty glass
you’re a wasp nest, you’re a wasp nest.

You’re all humming live wires under your killing clothes.
Get over here; I wanna kiss your skinny throat.
You’re a wasp nest, you’re a wasp nest.