| Sun light peers through the window of our forsaken house
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| You look at my face, I look at your face, you put your hand to your mouth
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| Are you troubled, my dear? |
| Are you boiling with fear? |
| Has your guilt-ridden
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| conscious caved in?
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| There’s no heaven or hell this house is it for us both, let the haunting
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| forever begin.
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| So I punish my liver like I walked in a caught him fucking my daughter,
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| he was fucking my daughter
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| I’m a cobweb in the corner, I’m tortured and worn out, but I’d like you to
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| remember me as great
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| (Great writer, a great lover, great artist, great…)
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| And so I garnish my liver with the blood of whoever and I tell you I love you
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| because I believe that I love you
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| I believe you’ll leave me a sad empty vessel, and I’ll just wander these halls
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| like a slow moving thought
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| We watch the wood floors warp in the sun patiently pacing til midnight
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| We watch our corpses decompose in the bleached silver ray of the moonlight
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| The years forget us as our bones turn to dust, she speaks only when lonely
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| As we accept fate, just then a family of eight moves in for a small sum of money
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| So now punished, I shall punish whoever inhabits this house- now a canvas,
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| a puppet with my hand in it
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| I move through the rooms like a hemorrhaged balloon
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| I tickle your neck with the stink of my breath
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| Now I garnish my hate with the torture of eight
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| I sell them religion because we all need religion
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| Now enter the priest! |
| He shrieks latin and sprays water
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| I stick to the walls
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| In this house I am God
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| In every home a ghost exists, with every moan the house admits. |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Chicago Typewriter , by - Trophy Scars. Song from the album Holy Vacants, in the genre Пост-хардкор