She Hides Behind Her Hair 
Here In The Macabre Theater.
Because All My Memories Are Fuzzy 
Like Old Movies
And He Walks,
And He’s Not Even A Person.
I Flick The Flashlight On.
All This Anticipation 
For The Suicidal Thieves Of Night.
Into The River Of Styx,
We’re Back Into The Water.
We Could Let Him Leave,
We Could Let Him Live,
But Why Bother?
He’s Not Even A Person.

Back Inside, 
Where The Carpet’s Dry.
We Can’t Stay Here And Do Nothing.
The Doctor Knows Best,
But What If He’s Possessed?
Into The Night 
With Panic On The Rise,
Dare We Go Into This Bryce 
While Bats Swim The Limelight?
It’s A Long Way Into The Dark.
I Think We’ve Gone Too Far,
If He’s Really Satan, That Is.
For God’s Sake Or Mine, 
He Shall Make Her Number Nine.
Smoking A Cigarette, Watching It Burn.
He’s Not In Hell Where He Belongs.
Through The Horror We Creep Along.
While Her Eyes Peer 
From Behind Her Hair Here
At The Macabre Theater.