Sycamore 135 has stood empty now for 27 years
Abandoned, caked with spiderwebs and tears
But a fingerprint of crimson still remains
And crimson tastes like bloody dripping stains
Some foreign doll she tried to rent this dump last week
Her eyes stare blank, her hair turned white, her blood dripped cold,
Her lips contort around a name she'll never speak...
I'm the investigator with a little black bag packed tight with all my tricks
To determine why from dusty walls blood drips
To unearth the bones buried deep beneath the steps
To recoil my brain hemoraging with dread
I felt an icy grip around my throat last night
My eyes stare blank, my hair turned white, my blood dripped cold,
My lips contort around a name I'll never speak...
Unbidden tongues lick at yer cranium tonight
Yer eyes stare blank, yer hair turned white, yer blood dripped cold,
Yer lips contort around a name you'll never speak...