It calls the Victorian lady back from the dead.
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She rises from the cold ground
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And enters through the door as a draught
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To you and I
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If you and I could ever, ever go back,
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We'd see her on the other side of a dusty frame,
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Running through the field, pale of salt water in hand.
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She races through closed and open shutters,
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In search of lovely little ones,
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The ones your hearts with,
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The ones you love.
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They asked for her to come.
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They asked the man in the bright red suit
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And wrote it on their list, too,
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But never would he hear them,
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Through all the snow.
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And despite being hung on the walls
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Of all the ocean liners the Queen herself
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Could not get the water to put the fire out.
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And when I call you won't come running,
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Now a dark spectre to me.
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No returning in white chariot.
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Frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink.
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Oh, the dust is falling heavy out on the hills,
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My portrait and my windowsill.
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We'd kiss but we are made of clay.
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You loved me most when love was young.
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Now, even the setting sun
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We dance beneath is made of clay.
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The dust falls heavy on the hill.
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My portrait is my windowsill.
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And out come the little ones with burning, flailing arms.
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Take up your drumsticks and
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Batter my heart like an antique tom.
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And when I call you won't come running,
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Now a dark spectre to me.
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No returning in white chariot.
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Frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink.
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And when I call you won't come running,
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Now a dark spectre to me.
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No returning in white chariot.
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Frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink.
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And when I won't call. You won't come running,
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Now a dark spectre to me.
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No returning in white chariot.
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Frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink.
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-----------------
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Into The Ink
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| The Jezabels |
