he's cloaked in black, and painted up
and slices through the night
and even though he looks like death,
his smile is pure delight
his face is white, it's only paint
his eyes are golden brown
and lined by deepest, darkest black,
he's known all over town
he plays guitar, the saddest tunes,
while sitting on the roof
a year after his grisly death,
he came back, it's the truth.
he walks along the street at night,
a crow perched on his back
he's nice to those who're nice to him,
but eric takes no flak
he dresses darkly, but his soul
his soul was full of light
a saint, was he, so very much,
but he still ruled the night..
he's cloaked in black and painted up
and slices through the night
and even though he looks like death,
his smile is pure delight...
more torture?
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Email: msbiotch@hotmail.com
