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
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
