| You don’t have to play me backwards
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| To get the meaning of my verse
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| You don’t have to die and go to hell
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| To feel the devil’s curse
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| Well I thought my life was a photograph
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| On the family Christmas card
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| Kids all dressed in buttons and bows
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| And lined up in the yard
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| Were the golden days of childhood
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| So lyrical and warm
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| Or did the picture start to fade
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| On the day that I was born
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| I’ve seen them light the candles
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| I’ve heard them bang the drum
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| And I’ve cried Mama, I’m cold as ice!
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| And I got no place to run
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| Let the night begin there’s a pop of skin
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| And the sudden rush of scarlet
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| There’s a little boy riding on a goat’s head
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| And a little girl playing the harlot
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| There’s a sacrifice in an empty church
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| Of sweet li’l baby Rose
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| And a man in a mask from Mexico
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| Is peeling off my clothes
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| I’ve seen them light the candles
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| I’ve heard them bang the drum
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| And I’ve cried Mama, I’m cold as ice!
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| And I got no place to run
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| So I’m paying for protection
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| Smoking out the truth
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| Chasing recollections
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| Nailing down the proof
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| You don’t have to play me backwards
|
| To get the meaning of my verse
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| You don’t have to die and go to hell
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| To feel the devil’s curse
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| I’ll stand before your altar
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| And tell everything I know
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| I’ve come to claim my childhood
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| At the chapel of baby Rose
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| I’ve seen them light the candles
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| I’ve heard them bang the drum
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| I’ve seen them light the candles
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| I’ve heard them bang the drum |