In your wardrobe there are a lot of stripes
But what seems to be missing
Are the skeletons
Of the people
That you do not like
You've contemplated on how you'd make them scream
And in your head you've fed them meat from two-thousand-and-three
Why don't you act, why don't you carry it through
I guess that's just the fantasies of a stay at home psychopath
Or this world that's making you fucking mad
The crinkle of glass
On your old tarmac
The creaking of wood
Screams in pain like it should
The glow from your lamp
Shrouds the cold and the damp
You know of the way
That you go about your day
And your weapon of choice
Is the lightness of your voice
Lyrics provided by LRCLIB
