Post by Wallflower on Mar 6, 2005 4:39:55 GMT -5
The music in the graveyard, comes from the purple moon;
You can softly hear it thunder, softly hear it swoon.
In the moonlight, covered with dew, the gras would grow just the same;
Samer than the others, had there been no rain.
The graveyard and the honest death have been but innocently stained;
The innocence, and freshness of this place have been restrained.
When you speak, vainity is all I hear;
The distain drips from your lips, as I draw near.
In your mind, the truth must be spoken in a lie;
One covered with the other, makes weary to my eye.
There will be a lie of a tie, in our competition game;
Just because, NEITHER of us, wants to be the one to blame.
You can softly hear it thunder, softly hear it swoon.
In the moonlight, covered with dew, the gras would grow just the same;
Samer than the others, had there been no rain.
The graveyard and the honest death have been but innocently stained;
The innocence, and freshness of this place have been restrained.
When you speak, vainity is all I hear;
The distain drips from your lips, as I draw near.
In your mind, the truth must be spoken in a lie;
One covered with the other, makes weary to my eye.
There will be a lie of a tie, in our competition game;
Just because, NEITHER of us, wants to be the one to blame.
