In the dark theres a hole where the rabbits go no more. Theres a path to a room where a black
cradle waits for you. And i cut your hair last night, i found the birthmark that you hide that
spells out the number of the beast. This is an omen, i am sure. For darkness there cant be no cure.
Now i can put my finger on the patch of sky that seems to be hanging over our heads, that sends
hailstorms down on our bed and i look up and wait for lightning to strike. So i perform exorcisms with
alcohol and violent kisses. But the exchange of dispair, my fingers tangled up in your hair wont
keep the devil at bay. This is an invasion of body snatchers. They replaced me with a box of matches.
Now i run red-headed through life, prepared to burn down. Well meet on our tricycles down the hall
to race down the corridors of our downfall. No glowing christian crosses could make this a movie our
grandmothers would watch. So i perform...