In the basement where I sleep alone
Tinted mirrors shot right through my veins of gold
There's a nova in the mirror, holding up his two legs
With damp marks on the collar of his robe
With incisions and ghosts, on the nape of his neck
But there's nothing you can do
When he doesn't praise the sun
But he'll praise the moon
When he doesn't praise the wind
But he'll praise our oxygen