Everybody know the dice are loaded; everybody rolls with their fingers crossed. Everybody knows the war is over, and everybody knows the good guys lost. Everybody knows the fight was fixed; the poor stay poor, the rich get rich.
It ain't that in their hearts they're bad. They can comfort you; some even try. They nurse you when you're ill of health. They bury you when you go and die. They'll stick by you if they could. Ah, but that's just bullshit, baby: people just ain't no good.
A rat always knows when he's in with weasels. Here, you lose a little every day. Well, I remember when a million was a million... They all have ways to make you pay.
There's a shark in the pool and a witch in the tree, a crazy old neighbour and he's been watching me. And there's footsteps loud and strong coming down the hall. Something's under the bed -- now it's out in the hedge... There's a big black crow sitting on my window ledge. And I hear something scratching through the wall...
Make it seven o nine California time... Whoever said it was a small world was either a liar or a fool, 'cause it's not true. And any promise we make is as easy to break as the plastic people on a wedding cake -- so says you, but you know, I do.
People 'round here say you're a witch; they're intrigued in seeing you roast. They really intend to burn you my friend -- I think that's the bit they like most. Wake up baby, the mob are on their way -- howling, growling, they want your blood and they're out to get it today.
The clock strikes twelve and moondrops burst out at you from their hiding place, like acid and oil on a madman's face. His reason tends to fly away, like lesser birds on the four winds, like silver scrapes in May... And now the sand's become a crust and most of you have gone away.
I come, old friend, from hell tonight, across the rotting sea. Nor the nails of the cross, nor the blood of Christ can bring you help this eve. The dead have come to claim a debt from thee. They stand outside your door, four score and three...
I dreamt I saw you walking up a hillside in the snow, casting shadows on the winter sky as you stood there counting crows: one for sorrow, two for joy; three for girls and four for boys; five for silver, six for gold; seven for a secret never to be told.
"Oh, don't talk of love," the shadows purr, murmuring me away from you. "Don't talk of worlds that never were -- the end is all that's ever true. There's nothing you can ever say, nothing you can ever do." Still, every night I burn...
Zeno's arrow never hits the mark. It's always hanging there over its shadow: safe from battle, waste of archer's time and trouble. Waste of effort, waste of parts... If you don't aim for the center it's a waste of the art.
Pour your misery down. You can keep me company as long as you don't care.