| There’s a hair on the bed
|
| The clock has stopped ticking
|
| And nothing remotely romantic has been said
|
| Let’s not pass on the steps
|
| Let’s take the season very easy
|
| Let’s take pills, salt water, let’s keep looking ahead
|
| Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
|
| Oh, but it calms me down
|
| Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
|
| Oh, but it calms me down
|
| There is a history in pictures
|
| There is evidence in boxes
|
| There is proof of your love for him, long after it’s dead
|
| And every creak, a trigger
|
| I will think of you with others
|
| I could not smother out that fire in my head
|
| And I saw your levitating chair
|
| I found your long blond hairs
|
| I felt your poltergeist presence in the frame of the bed
|
| Every creak is a trigger
|
| I will think of you with others
|
| I found depravity convinced me I may no longer care
|
| Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
|
| Oh, but it calms me down
|
| Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
|
| Oh, but it calms me down
|
| Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
|
| Oh, but it calms me down
|
| Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
|
| Oh, but it calms me down |