Gutted - Trophy Scars

These are shadows swinging from the chandeliers

The husband entranced by the dark

The wife, the kids, the mirror all sick with fear

As our ghosts flip over every little cross

Then they see the angels and all their bloody deaths

Lent to burning crosses on their heads

As they run out the door we appear through the floor, ghosts forevermore

Scratching burning crosses on our heads

They think of their house

Their perfect little house

So they pay a priest to bless us out

As they board up the doors and tear up the floors

Dead forevermore, still wearing that blood-soaked filthy fucking blouse

By the cellar stairs and the birchwood chairs you can hear the creaks from the

house

Through the lilac trees, through the swamps and weeds, you can hear the screams

from their mouths

I used to think that we knew best drinking blood at church by the park

I used to say «Everyone's afraid.»

Everyone’s afraid of the dark

Clutching to their Bibles, burning holy candles

They think they got a handle on their house

But every time they go to bed my girl is standing by their heads

I watch her open her transparent mouth

She sings:

«You won’t be sleeping too long,»

«You'll pack up your things before dawn,»

«We'll burn through your sheets, as you hear us scream.»

«Scratching burning crosses on our heads.»

Then they see the angels and all their blood deaths lent to burning crosses on

their heads

As they run out the door we appear through the floor, ghosts forevermore

Scratching burning crosses on our heads