Circumlocution
Our arguments go round and
round
too often fuelled by scotch or wine.
Seduced by our own voices' sound
we cannot seem to draw the line.
Too often fuelled by scotch or
wine
you swear to me that black is white.
We cannot seem to draw the line;
you queer the pitch on which we fight.
You swear to me that black is
white.
There is no logic in your tack.
You queer the pitch on which we fight,
repeat to me that white is black.
There is no logic in your
tack,
and, though my thinking's getting blurred,
repeat to me that white is black.
I start to wonder what I've heard.
And, though my thinking's
getting blurred,
seduced by our own voices' sound,
I start to wonder what I've heard.
Our arguments go round and round.