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 of 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
Аnd leave it in good hands at the morgue
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 shakes
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 our decay
Because this is not our line
No, 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
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