When the old ghost of suicide
Creeps slowly back into your mind
Then everything is bleak and blurred
Down here in the short-sighted world
Yet, this time I have to insist
On the sharpness of the things I missed
This once so loyal friend
He's not that welcome anymore

White, fragile porcelain-boy
Some minor things shall be
Left unsaid, yes, you share
the strongest desire for beauty
As like all the "enchanted"
You are more than blessed with it

The boy is a prison-cell that
Like a child needs to be washed and fed
These are just two of the things
That I have a tendency to forget

The heavy smell of rotting flowers
Is chanting through the prison doors
We kiss the dying world goodbye
And leave it in good hands at the morque

Well, on the second day of excavation
Tell me, what did you expect to find?
Be careful when you scratch the surface
'Cause we all have a dog to exercise
We are not lovers, we are likers
We are merely hands and shake
There are just four from the list of the numberless things
Of which we're still afraid

We are not familiar
With the state of (y)our decay
Because this is not our line
It is not really our trade
All we know is that our feet are cold
And that our sticky hands are wet
And that we're here to bring you tidings
Straight from the choir of the dead

Look at the boy, oh, he really suffers
He's caught in fear and its distress
There's no point in looking at him for answers
Because he is a stranger here himself

The body is a prison-cell
That like a child needs to be washed and fed
There are just two of the things
That I have a tendency to forget
The body is a prison-cell
That like a child needs to be washed and fed
There are just two of the things
That I have a tendency to forget