In the world the sun is coming up black cry, cry pain
filled doves and beat up against my window, my head.
Blue and red, alive and dead. Keep the claws coiled
and not understand the suffering. Cradled in madness
flirting with dead hope and sadness what is real and true.
Bury me Sundays are red, they hurt me like the needles
of rain. Are you coming, are you coming dawn from there
I can dance on the night wind with my wings, my wings a
thorn stroke me, a thorn chokes me nervously always a
blood bath brooding 'neath my windows let me out my
body is rain trickle through the cracks trickle down mournful
terrain not too far from the pavement the cold grey truth
bury me Sundays are red they hurt me like the needles of
rain on my head bury me Sundays are red they hurt me like
the needles of rain, Sundays are red, Sundays are red,
Sundays are red, Somedays are dead take me from the mad
red, take me from the mad red and give me a peaceful blue
I do not like living when there is no giving.
It makes no sense, it makes no sense.
