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Take a ride on my hospital bed.
Trace the footprints of the living dead.
Come walk with me in my world for a while,
where the color white is the only thing in style.
On each sunrise I place my reliance.
I breathe through a miracle of science.
The smell of the ocean rolls through my window,
and the smell of death stains this very pillow.
A flower wilts while a priest is still kneeling.
Some machine tells me exactly how I’m feeling.
My head lies on the wrong side of fate.
While one hand knocks on Saint Peter’s Gate
I am a prisoner in society.
And I’m doing time for my infirmity.
The hands of time wash me away in a flood.
I’ve grown quite accustomed to the taste of my own blood.
Trace the footprints of the living dead.
Come walk with me in my world for a while,
where the color white is the only thing in style.
I breathe through a miracle of science.
The smell of the ocean rolls through my window,
and the smell of death stains this very pillow.
Some machine tells me exactly how I’m feeling.
My head lies on the wrong side of fate.
While one hand knocks on Saint Peter’s Gate
And I’m doing time for my infirmity.
The hands of time wash me away in a flood.
I’ve grown quite accustomed to the taste of my own blood.
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