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Burn These Pages ...Days of Epiphany; Years of Regret... Match Made in Hell Secret place We all fear to go Mirror in the corner Of the attic below Spark flickered eyes Flames did grow I'll lose secrecy In the end we all know Shaky hands And broken bones A cellar holler caught me Asleep all alone I'd have it if you give me Some of my own With a black bowed gift And the world unknown Sip down your molotov cocktail Made from pain and made from whence you hail Strike up fires with your match made in hell Hear the sound of a liberty bell Shaky hands and A lust to kill Cellar holler caught me And its just a cheap thrill I'd have it if you've got More blood to spill Black bowed gift And a world standing still Sip down your molotov cocktail Made from pain and made from whence you hail Strike up fires with your match made in hell Hear the sound of a liberty bell Speak easy Cut ourselves drunk with the glare and the fire in our eyes Speak easy Nothing to lose but the blood we've got left inside |
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