| Roaming the plains
|
| Where a number is your name
|
| In a palace
|
| And you’ll never find the door
|
| Oh look into the mirror
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| Is it what you wanna see
|
| Or just a cuddle toy
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| The vogue has washed ashore
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| No I don’t care what you say
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| Into the darkness I plough my way
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| I’m striking out for paradise
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| To be the one I am
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| We’re going down to the devil
|
| We are striking out for paradise
|
| To bedlam below — down to the devil
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| The mad parade is coming home
|
| Can’t you hear the sound
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| As they make the hammer pound
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| Rusty nails into a coffin of your size
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| To bury you alive
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| You mature until you’re ripe
|
| Then they reap you
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| When you’re beautiful enough
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| In their eyes
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| They lurk to wall in your belief
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| Put up glass ceilings that you can’t see
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| To break down the freak
|
| They don’t want you to be
|
| We’re going down to the devil
|
| We are striking out for paradise
|
| To bedlam below — down to the devil
|
| The mad parade is comming home
|
| Oh, we’re going down
|
| Here’s your invitation, your instigation
|
| Your damnation to the hellfire club |