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Something in the vein of the cities on the plain Containing decades knitted into single thought Before your empty hearse contributed a verse It drove in figure 8’s of endless parking lots Our songs stood idly by as they raised the ridge beam high And once the recompense of senses had begun Your maladjusted eyes shouted out “anaesthetized Castration en masse, anyone?” Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d’une pipe [don’t you think it’s time?] Something in the vein, a blockage in the brain And if it’s all the same I’ll graciously decline That dread night you heard I heard you came with tender words And all the proper paperwork to sign Now when his ghost comes in to finally rest its phantom limbs And I again begin to fill your flask with tea: “you think you’ve spent your years in search of something real? But you would’ve failed the same Child, if you were me.” Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d'une pipe Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d'une pédophile Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d'une pipe [don’t you think it’s time to take your fangs out of my mind?] From Letras Mania