Betray cold lips with the sound of her name Whisper a kiss Stain the tips of cold fingers Eclipse the moon with a flame Don’t touch her She’s going to heaven The clouds silver-lined And life isn’t hard there Imagine just to look at her Sugar, spice, everything nice It soaks into my pillowcase Keep her near and let her break into My castle Betray cold lips with the sound of her name Again Stain the tips; how tender light slips Again Don’t touch her She’s going to heaven The golds silver-lined And it’s nice to be alive Your living and breathing That’s good for a start You’re growing, you’re knowing Your taking a part You’re loving, you’re learning You’re falling You’re finding that dying is close to your heart Now the fount of tears is dry and no one wants to hear you cry No one wants to listen, no one wants to listen anymore You’re such a waste, such a monster, such a snake, such a loser, my mistake. If my baby wasn’t dead she’d send a bullet through her head. To never blur the light through tears is better than a million years of life under. Life under the sun is a tragedy. Tragically, we traverse the travesty, march toward the grave—no majesty. That’s life under the sun.