Roman Holiday

We cut our teeth in the bedroom

We slit our wrists in our costumes

All of them witches, witches, witches, witches

We are the death of the party

We are the life of the funeral

All of us ragmen, ragmen, ragmen, ragmen

I want the ripened fruit

I want the fresh meat

I want the first born

I want the down beat

We traded vows on the front line

They ushered us through the stop sign

All of them witches, witches, witches, witches

We found our way in the blackout

We are the ghosts in the lighthouse

All of us ragmen, ragmen, ragmen, ragmen

I want the open wound

I want the dark street

I want the virgin blood

I want the wet heat