Texty: Norma Jean. Memphis Will Be Laid To Waste.

Walk around the room with a glaze in your stare.
In your tuxedo suit. I will give it a name. Lower
your defenses. Lower your casket. Open the door
and open your grave. Murder. Now you're doing the
waltz with your murderer. Mediocrity is the killer.
You find yourself helpless. Christ is not a fashion,
fleeting away. He laid emeralds in her eyes, but I'd
already tried a bracelt made of gold and a scarlet
thread around her wrist. Everything was wrong so we
sang sentimental songs. "Oh how seldom we belong but
how elegant our kiss." We painted crooked lines but
danced in perfect time to a love so much refined, we
know not what it is until like a dullen wine we pour
into a grief know before but never quite like this.
All i know now is regret, it follows like a silhouette
along the cobbelstone behind me, but has nothing to
say except to innocently ask, its voice delicate as
glass, "Do you see me when we pass?" but i continue on
my way.