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Trophy Scars
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Gutted
There are shadows swinging from the chandeliers
The husband entranced by the dark
The wife, the kids, the mirror：all sick with fear
As our ghosts flip over every little cross
Then they see the angels and all their bloody deaths
lent to burning crosses on their heads
As they run out the door, we appear through the floor, ghosts forevermore
Scratching burning crosses on our heads
They think of their house
Their perfect little house
So they pay a priest to bless us out
As they* board up the doors and tear up the floors
Dead forevermore, still wearing that blood soaked filthy fucking blouse
By the cellar stairs and the birchwood chairs you can hear the creaks from the house
Through the lilac trees, through the swamps and weeds, you can hear the screams from their mouths
I used to think that we knew best drinking blood at church by the park
I used to say, 'Everyone's Afraid.'
Everyone's afraid of the dark
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Clutching to their bibles
Burning holy candles
They think they got a handle on their house
But every time they go to bed
My girl is standing by their heads
I watch her open her transparent mouth
She sings:
'You won't be sleeping too long,
you'll pack up your things before dawn,'
'We'll burn through your sheets as you hear us scream,
scratching burning crosses on* our heads.'
Then they see the angels and all their bloody deaths
lent to burning crosses on their heads
As they run out the door, we appear through the floor, ghosts forevermore
Scratching burning crosses on our heads
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