Dreams our own Montresor's,
Lead us deep within our hearts,
Then brick us up where no one,
Can hear our screams,
Lured in with seeming reward and gratification,
Now locked away far below.
A sip of the sickness,
To which we're addicted,
Guides us into the catacombs,
Too late we realize,
Manipulated, surprised,
An eternity to think behind these
3x4 bones.
Bones.
We seek to repeat our days,
And follow self-drawn lines,
Completing the same routines,
Never to realize,
That down inside us all is locked something so free,
Instead we shave our sides,
Become the pegs they want to see.
A sip of the sickness,
To which we're addicted,
Drives us into the catacombs,
Too late we realize,
Manipulated, surprised,
An eternity to think behind these,
3x4 bones.
Bones.
A sip of the sickness,
To which we're addicted,
Guides us into the catacombs,
And too late we realize,
Manipulated, surprised,
An eternity to think behind these
3x4 bones.
Bones.

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