We cut our teeth in the bedroom
We slit our wrist in the costume
All of them WITCHES!
We are the death of the party
We are the life of the funeral,
all of us RAG-MEN!
I want the ripened fruit
I want the fresh meat
I want the first born
I want the down beat
We traded our vows on the front-lines
They ushered us throw the stop signs,
all of them WITCHES!
We found our way in the black-out
We are the ghosts in the light house,
all of us us RAG-MEN!
I want the open wound
I want the dark street
I want the virgin blood
I want the wet heat
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