| Listen up sweetie.
|
| We all know that you’re a beautiful girl in this horrible world.
|
| In this suggestion of horror.
|
| The portraits on the walls…
|
| Look at their eyes, they always seem to follow.
|
| Look at their eyes, they always seem to follow me!
|
| Out of tune this tale of terror.
|
| The solemn tolling of the funeral bells.
|
| I want to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours
|
| where everyday’s a Bone Palace Ballet.
|
| Biting the flesh from your finger.
|
| You know, I just can’t help myself.
|
| I wish to believe, but belief is a graveyard.
|
| May this light never see morning, as finally one will not.
|
| Maybe you’re the one that’s overrated.
|
| Shriek and scream much too horrified to speak.
|
| Out of tune this tale of terror.
|
| The solemn tolling of the funeral bells.
|
| I want to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours
|
| where everyday’s a Bone Palace Ballet.
|
| (Flowers of red, begin to bloom on the white sheets in her room.
|
| Our lifeless bodies lying there rotting. |
| For all of time, and eternity)
|
| This morning I woke up, I rubbed my eyes,
|
| and I took a quick glance around the room,
|
| and saw what happened here last night.
|
| There was blood on the walls,
|
| and the sheets smelled like sweat and sex.
|
| We have narrowed it down to a butcher knife,
|
| and the mockingbird with the blood.
|
| Out of tune this tale of terror.
|
| The solemn tolling of the funeral bells.
|
| I want to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours
|
| where everyday’s a Bone Palace Ballet. |