Blonde trouble

She’s the kind could clean you out
Strip your clothes, blow up your house
Stand you naked in the rubble

Making promises with your fingers crossed
Counting the cost of the things you’ve lost
Count the cost of things unfound
Blond trouble

She’s like the driving force of fate
A mirror thrown from a speeding train
An elastic rope that’s drawn between two points

Her voice says: Would I lie to you?
The eyes say something different
She says: I think I love you
But it’s not the thought that counts

Roll a six ‘cause you know you can
Stare down the barrel of a loaded gun
Move to a place that seems remote

She’s the kind could clean you out
Strip your clothes blow up your house
Stand you naked in the rubble
Blond trouble