I’m standing in the room with all of her family pictures,
Holding in my hands the one she’d always hide from me.
I guess I tried to catch the smirk as it curled up the side of my lip.
Oh the irony, it lingers now so tragically. In everything.

Now I say I don’t believe, but every prayer finds its niche.
Show me the pretty part of the world, show me the switch.
No, give up the ghost, she’d always say. If it’s dead, it’ll always be this way.
God’s an Indian giver, he pushed us on stage but took everything with Him.

Yeah, He took everything with Him.

We’re so creative, let us always and ever play pretend,
Our nightlife will determine not the expense of day.
We’ll suffer breath if it is the oxygen that needs our lungs,
And we’ll toss around depression ‘cause we’re still at that age.

Promised we’d live to see the day of our apartment scheme.
Tableware from mental wards, fun-house mirrors; every room.
I choked cowardly on a gambit, swore I had not planned it.
And I couldn’t find the words to say I spoke too soon.

I really spoke too soon.

Now I’m pretending I’ve a chance,
Pry this question question from my hands.
I’ve got such a god-complex tonight,
Worthy of another psychoanalysis.
So how far can bullets go?
I’m riddled with the ones that missed my love.
If I dodged the real ones, let me know,
No one but the soundman knows for sure.
But yet we’re all victims of His clumsy puppetry
And we’re left to laugh at the leftover irony.
She’d always say I was a perfectionist, clearly,
The way I tried to tug on every string.
Well, I want to tug you down now.
I want to tug you down now.
Twiddle the string, twiddle it.
Twiddle the string and I’ll find it.
Twiddle the string and I’ll find it.
I’ll find the string and you’ll pull me in.

I’m standing in the room with all of her family pictures.
Oh the irony. It lingers now so tragically. In everything.