This house is an ancient tomb.
Be warned.
Born in 1974
With the blood stains on the door.
This house is a monument
You see.
Erect in 1983
In memory of what you've done to me.
This house is a freight train
And it's mine.
Back in 1989
They found my body on the Morris–Ess** line.
A cord, accord,
A car, a call.
The hospital said it would
Gladly repay it all.
I'm born, I'm bored,
I'm not at all.
This body needs an overhaul.
The blast from the cannon
Was more than they could take
And ever since that summer
They've been something of a flake.
We pray for them at dinner,
We pray for them at dawn,
We pray that when they grow up
That they'll be dead and gone.
We pray that they will pa** us by
But they keep coming on.
Wake up!
I'm coming over.
Watch the way the milk has curdled in the cradle.
There's a rattle underneath the kitchen table.
We're ignoring it as best as we are able.
But the air in there is static and unstable.
There's a rapping at the door.