| They say he lives alone
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| He had a wife but that was long ago
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| The town drunk he always talks to himself
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| He says it’s her and who are we to know
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| In the room down the hall on the second floor
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| Above the counter in the pub at the edge of town
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| Still living in his memory, obsessed with the act of remembering
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| The only one with a key into the cold room
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| He replays the scene and she’s there with him now
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| Standing drunk like a leper on the threshold
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| Broke down staring at the emptiness and he says
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| You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful
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| Your beautiful grotesque love
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| They say he couldn’t live with himself
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| Blood on his hands but that was long ago
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| He found his love lying silent and still
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| In room four, that’s how the story goes
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| And now he comes back every night to drink there
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| The same place long ago where she was found
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| Still air crackling, cold feeling back again
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| He unlocks the door but never goes in
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| A woman’s face in the window stares him down
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| A shiver runs up the back of his neck
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| But he won’t cross the line of the dead
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| When he says
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| You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful
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| Your beautiful grotesque love
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| You visit me in darkness, every night I find you
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| Deliver me from torment, no light will guide you
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| I wish that there was some way, to bring you back beside me
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| I wish that there was some way, some way, some way, ay, ay, ay
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| You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful
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| Your beautiful grotesque love |