Texty: The Jezabels. Into the Ink.

It calls the Victorian lady back from the dead
She rises from the cold ground and enters through the door
as a draught to you and I
If you and I could ever, ever go back
We'd see her on the other side of a dusty frame,
Running through the field, pale of salt water in hand

She races through closed and open shutters
In search of lovely little ones,
the ones your heart's with, the ones you love
They asked for her to come
They asked the man in the bright red suit and wrote it on their list, too
But never would he hear them through all the snow

And despite being hung on the walls of all the ocean liners
The Queen herself could not get the water to put the fire out

And when I call you won't come running
Now a dark spectre to me
No returning in white chariot
Hot frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink

Oh, the dust is falling heavy out on the hills
My portrait is my window sill
We'd kiss but we are made of clay
You loved me most when love was young
Now even the setting sun we dance beneath is made of clay
The dust falls heavy out on the hills
My portrait is my window sill

And out come the little ones with burning, flailing arms
Take up your drumsticks and batter my heart
Like an antique tom

I won't call, you won't come running
Now a dark spectre to me
No returning in white chariot
Hot frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink