| When you’re dead and buried
|
| With a smile painted on your face
|
| Your eulogy, like poetry
|
| Flowers overwhelming the wake
|
| Where I’m sure as in your life there will be
|
| Beautiful women there in your death
|
| Crying out they swear they will love you until
|
| Their very own last dying breath
|
| 'Cause you just have this way of charming those
|
| Who catch your eye like shiny things
|
| With a face made for daytime TV shows
|
| You’re a nightmare disguised as a good dream
|
| When she wants a garden, you give her a rose
|
| Just the taste of something you could give her but you won’t
|
| When she wants a garden, you give her a rose
|
| And you know it
|
| But you just have your ways, what with all of those
|
| Grotesque displays of love you show
|
| Ripped from pages of books, every word which you know
|
| And recite back to them as if they were your own
|
| I feel sorry for them because how could they know?
|
| 'Til they’ve died by your hands, 'til they’ve felt the cold
|
| Cut of your sharp tongue, with your delusions of grandeur
|
| Yea you give nothing and think it too much
|
| And when she wants a garden, you give her a rose
|
| And I’ll bet you have to hide your grin
|
| As you watch it die in your arms
|
| When she wants a garden, you give her a rose
|
| And you know it
|
| When you’ve dearly departed
|
| There will be all those broken-hearted
|
| But I’ll have a smile painted on my face
|
| There’s a spot in the grass
|
| Waiting for you at
|
| Whispering Glades
|
| And Hollywood suits you, darling I think
|
| You should stay |