In some kind of night terror
There was this ghost
And we shared our deaths while sleepwalking through life
But as casualties rose, he found in me a scapegoat
He found his lack of passion as a fault of mine
There was this ghost
And we shared our deaths while sleepwalking through life
But as casualties rose, he found in me a scapegoat
He found his lack of passion as a fault of mine
And i hope the roses on his grave are rotting away
And if i take so much as a petal out on you, i'm sorry
But he's not worth mentioning cuz he means nothing to me now
Good as dead in a body bag, either hanged or shot or drowned
But before his grave he made it clear: my hands dug his hole
Then he slithered six feet under into that new home
And i hope the roses on his grave are rotting away
And if i take so much as a petal out on you, i'm sorry
And i hope the roses on his grave are rotting away
And if i take so much as a petal out on you, i'm sorry
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