There’s a cold wind blowing on the back of my neck And the chills keep rising from my core to my fingertips It’s a place unfamiliar where the sun will neither rise nor set A land of the waiting for ghosts that we’ve always kept
And I’m the grit in your head The walking wounded I’m all the things that all the fallen fell for
I’m a dead man walking Along the road to my reckoning And the birds keep screeching I wonder what they’re trying to say
Cause I’m the grit in your head The walking wounded I’m all the things that all the fallen fell for
I can’t find my way back down from here From here
I’m a marionette moving Through the scenes of my final play And the set keeps creaking I wonder what its trying to say.
I don’t want to lose my head round here Round here
