I know its plain
I know its sane
I know its white and hung outside
And the nails are inside out.
And they crisp you dry.
Its so lonely when the eye's are blind
And they look away, outside.
Its almost like your tomb is inside out .
Your mausoleum is spitting out pen pals.
Its lonely when you're hung out to dry,
Like an angel delight thats butterscotch blind.
Hanging high beneath the beetroot sky.
It won't matter now.
They'll blind thier eyes.