Thousands and thousands of poor excuses Hundreds of trees talk of hangman's nooses Woven into our mortal fabric She says she is a morbid fanatic To dying the ground's got more space for bodies Porsches and Sting-rays and Maseratis Iron and rubber and plastic bone dust Make up the outer edge of this earthly crust Softness and hardness, the colors of light Heavy and solid describe her at night Left behind thoughts they swing from the branches The ghosts do a dance in your sideways glances Mayhem ensues despite all your planning You misread your radar despite all it's scanning Nobody heard when the neighbor shot A hole in the ceiling of his cemetery plot Bastardized versions of what you invented Roll down the streets all scratched up and dented Cards on the table, the emperor's mistress Means more to you than a full house or kisses