She climbs up the stairs to where she sleeps in the attic.
She turns on the fan ‘cause she can’t sleep without static.
She lights the black candles in her gold candelabra—
They don’t give much light, yeah, but she loves the macabre.
A ringing, it wakes her at an untimely hour.
Hits snooze one more time and forgoes a day’s shower.
She works all day long, but she dreams of that mattress
Where she can come home and succumb to the blackness.
She love thunderstorms and comic books, pinball tables, inglenooks, but she doesn’t love me.
She loves diet cola, Halloween, cigarettes and nicotine, but she doesn’t love me.
No, she doesn’t love me. No, she doesn’t love me. No, she doesn’t love me. No, she doesn’t love me no more.
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