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It's not as obvious as it used to be,
They're always listening to me.
Hanging off every word that I say.
It's almost painful
Like a deep muscle massage-
You enjoy it cause you know
That the pain's for the best.
You can't afford to be listening to me.
A job that pays in confidence,
Makes it painfully easy.
To avoid you at times like this.
I can't afford to spend time with those sleazy,
Fourteen year old prostitutes that you call friends.
I'm on my way to the Gal of the Gotha.
What a way to rephrase it,
A march to the cross-hill.
Things are only happy as long as I'm smiling.
Stop smiling.
I'm stumbling just to breathe in the scent.
Tuck that parchment envelope
Into the blouse you wear.
Nothing's quite so confidential,
When housed in lavender lingerie
Mediocre restaurants are such
A blossoming monopoly-
It must be quite convenient,
They cater to your taste so damn well.
Of course it tastes like salt to us-
But that doesn't bother you,
Salt my wounds with your saliva
The wounds, mind you, that originated,
From such magnificently manicured talons.
I'm on my way to the Gal of the Gotha.
What a way to rephrase it,
A march to the cross-hill.
Things are only happy as long as I'm smiling.
Stop smiling.
I'm stumbling just to breathe in the scent.
Emerald pools of majesty and the distinct smell of tragedy.
I'll stop sounding eloquent when you pay the price.
Blood on the windowsills wont help with the butchers bill.
An counterfeit plaque is what says you're my wife.
You skim quickly over these words.
As if they're not worth your gaze.
You have no idea how much it hurts,
A horrible cliché.
I'm on my way to the Gal of the Gotha
It always comes back to the blood you forgot to bleed.
I'm on my way to the Gal of the Gotha
It always comes back to blood.
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