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.