• A memory thats coursing through your veins,
    amidst this cabaret.
    It is always the sinners who have something to say.
    But I'll pray to be more than a name.
    Won't trade for a basque dancer,
    there is so much enjoyment in fevers.
    Why is it always the sinners?

    Tonight lives in wake of tomorrow.
    Half of us won't live to see it.
    Oh, how I envy them,

    The half made beds,
    show me where you slept.
    I'll burn this in my mind,
    just like a last cigarette.
    This is my last request.

    Left as a word you say,
    in the time between when your hearts break.
    So wrong that it's right,
    so long and farewell, aren't goodnights