When the old ghost of suicide
Creeps slowly back into your mind
Then everything is bleak and blurred
Down here in the short-sighted world
Yet, this time I have to insist
On the sharpness of the things I missed
This once so loyal friend he's not that welcome anymore
White, fragile porcelain-boy,
Some minor things shall be left unsaid,
Yes, you share the strongest desire for beauty,
As like all the "enchanted" you are more than blessed with it
The body is a prison-cell that like a child needs to be washed and fed
These are just two of the things that I have a tendency to forget.
The heavy smell of rotting flowers is chanting through the prison doors
We kiss the dying world goodbye and leave it in good hands at the morque
Well, on the second day of excavation
Tell me, what did you expect to find?
Be careful when you scratch the surface
'cause we all have a dog to exercise
We are not lovers, we are likers
We are merely hands and shake
These are just four from the list of the numberless things
Of which we're still afraid
We are not familiar with the state of (y)our decay
Because this is not our line, it is not really our trade
All we know is that our feet are cold
And that our sticky hands are wet
And that we're here to bring you tidings
straight from the choir of the dead
Look at the boy, oh, he really suffers
He's caught in fear and its distress
There is no point in looking at him for answers
Because he is a stranger here himself
The body is a prison-cell that like a child needs to be washed and fed
These are just two of the things that I have a tendency to forget
The body is a prison-cell that like a child needs to be washed and fed
These are just two of the things that I have a tendency to forget
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