It's curtains for universality, the applause has faded away, and with that damp musty smell, we're left staring at days, hours, weeks, of irreductible silence stale.
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The record skips repeating itself again. Broken. The record skips... it's sunday afternoon and we're left with the wind blowing through the cancer-ridden heart of this ghost town.
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The parade's over, everyone's gone home.
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The record skips, the record skips, the record skips.
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This Charade Has Lasted Well Past The Curtains Fall
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| Love Like... Electrocution |
